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By bequest of 2* 
William Lukens Shoemaker 
































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THE DALTONS; 




OR 


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<*/ 


THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


BY 

CHARLES LEVER, 

AUTHOR OF 

“MAURICE TIERNAY,” “ROLAND CASHEL.” “CHARLES O’MALLEY,” “ST. PATRICK'S EVE,” 
“THE NEVILLES OF GARRET3TOWN," &c., Ac. 


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NEW YORK: 




HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

» 

329 & 331 PEARL STREET, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

MDCCCLII. 



TO LORD METHUEN. 






My dear Methuen, 

Some idle folk have pretended that certain living, characters have been depicted 
under the fictitious names of this volume. There is, I assure you, but one person- 
ality contained in it, — and that is of a right true-hearted Englishman, hospitable, 
and manly in all his dealings, and to him I wish to dedicate my book, in testimony, 
not only of the gratitude which, in common with all his countrymen here, I feel to 
be his due, hut in recognition of many happy hours passed in his society, and the 
honor of his friendship. The personality begins and ends with this dedication, 
which I beg you to accept of, and am 

Ever yours, faithfully, 

CHARLES LEVER. 


Palazzo Capponi, Florence, 
Feb. 28, 1852. 


Gift 

W. L. Shoemaker 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 


Baden out of Season 1 

CHAPTER II. 

An Humble Interior 5 


CHAPTER III. 
“ The Forest Road” 

CHAPTER IV. 


The Onslows ^ ^ 17 

CHAPTER V. 

The Patient 20 

CHAPTER VI. 

A First Visit 23 

CHAPTER VII. 

A Lesson in Pistol Shooting 26 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Night Excursion 29 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Fine Lady’s Blandishments 33 

CHAPTER X. 

A Family Discussion 36 


CHAPTER XX. 

PAGE 


A very Small “Interior” 81 

CHAPTER XXL 

A Family Picture 84 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Kate 89 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

A Small Supper Party 93 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

A Midnight Reception 97 

CHAPTER XXV. 

A “ Levanter” 100 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ The End of the First Act” 107 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

A Small Dinner at the Villino Zoe 113 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

The Viscount’s Vision 118 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Frank’s Journey 122 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ A Peep between the Shutters,” at a New 
Character 40 


CHAPTER XXX. 

The Threat of “ a Slight Embarrass- 
ment” 129 


CHAPTER XII. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


Mr. Albert Jekyl 

CHAPTER XIII. 


44 


A Convivial Evening 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


133 


A Suspicious Visitor 47 

CHAPTER XIV. 

9 

An Embarrassing Question 49 

CHAPTER XV. 

Contrasts 55 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The “ Saal” of “the Russie” 62 

CHAPTER XVII. 

A Family Discussion 65 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Cares and Crosses 70 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The Preparation for the Road 73 


At Invasion 139 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The Conclusion of a “ Grand Dinner” .... 145 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Jekyl’s Counsels 151 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

“ Racca Morlache” 155 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“A Street Rencontre” 161 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

“ Proposals” 167 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

An Arrival 173 


IT 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

« 

“ Pratolino” 

CHAPTER XL. 

A Morning of Misadventures 

CHAPTER XL 

“ A Sad Household” 

CHAPTER XLII. 

A Last Scene 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

A Package of Letters 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

A Happy day for Peter Dalton 

CHAPTER XLV. 

“ Madame de Heidendorf ” 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

“ At Vienna” 

CHAPTER XL VII. 

Priestly Counsels 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

Secrets of Head and Heart 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

D’Esmonde’s Letter 

CHAPTER L. 

“ The Cadet von Dalton” 

CHAPTER LI. 

“Vienna” 

CHAPTER LII. 

“ The March” 

CHAPTER LIII. 

“ The Skirmish” 

CHAPTER LIV. 

“ A Villa and its Company” 

CHAPTER LV. 

Peter Dalton on Politics, Law, and Socialities 
CHAPTER LVI. 

Nelly’s Trials 

CHAPTER LVII. 

“ An Act of Settlement” 

CHAPTER LVIII. 

“ The Kursaal” 

CHAPTER LIX. 

The Last Stake of all 


CHAPTER LX. 

PACK 


Nelly’s Sorrows 289 

CHAPTER LXI. 

A Last Adieu 292 

CHAPTER LXII. 

The Tyrol Journey 294 

CHAPTER LXIII. 

“Florence” 298 

CHAPTER LXIV. 

Priestcraft 305 

CHAPTER LXV. 

The “ Moskova” 310 

CHAPTER LXVI. 

“Valeggio” 313 

CHAPTER LXVII. 

“ Plots, Politics, and Priestcraft” 321 

CHAPTER LXVIII. 

A Secret, and a Snare 327 

CHAPTER LXIX. 

A “ Sad Exit” 332 

CHAPTER LXX. 

“The Summons” 334 

CHAPTER LXXI. 

“Inistioge” 337 

CHAPTER LXXII. 


“ The Manor House of Corrig O’Neal” .... 340 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 

“ The Rore” 345 

CHAPTER LXXIV. 

“A Talk over ‘Bygones’ ” 349 

CHAPTER LXXV. 

“The Jail” 351 

, CHAPTER LXXVI. 

“ A Fencing Match” 353 

CHAPTER LXXVII. 

“ A Step in Vain” 355 

CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

“The Court-house of Kilkenny” 357 

CHAPTER LXXIX. 

“ The Retribution” 365 

CHAPTER LXXX. 

“ The End” 369 


PAGE 

177 

183 

189 

193 

198 

205 

209 

211 

214 

218 

225 

229 

233 

241 

245 

252 

257 

263 

267 

273 

282 


ENVOY 


371 


5 


THE DALTONS 

OR, 

THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


CHAPTER I. 

BADEN OUT OF SEASON. 


A theatre by daylight — a great historical 
picture in the process of cleaning — a ballet- 
dancer of a wet day hastening to rehearsal — the 
favorite for the Oaks dead-lame in a straw-yard 
— are scarcely more stripped of their legitimate 
illusions than is a fashionable watering-place on 
the approach of winter. The gay shops and 
stalls of flaunting wares, are closed ; the prom- 
enades, lately kept in trimmest order, are weed- 
grown and neglected; the “sear and yellow 
leaves” are fluttering and rustling along the al- 
leys where “ Beauty’s step was wont to tread.” 
Both music and fountains have ceased to play ; 
the very statues are putting on great overcoats 
of snow, while the orange-trees file off like a sad 
funeral procession to hide themselves in dusky 
sheds till the coming spring. 

You see as you look around you that nature 
has been as unreal as art itself ; and that all the 
bright hues of foliage and flower, all the odors 
that floated from bed and parterre, all the rip- 
pling flow of stream and fountain, have been just 
as artistically devised, and as much “got up,” 
as the transparencies, or the Tyrolese singers, 
the fireworks, or the fancy fair, or any other of 
those ingenious “spectacles” which amuse the 
grown children of fashion. The few who yet 
linger seem to have undergone a strange trans- 
mutation. The smiling landlord of the “ Adler” 
— we refer particularly to Germany as the very 
land of watering-places — is a half-sulky, farmer- 
looking personage, busily engaged in storing up 
his Indian corn, and his firewood and his for- 
age, against the season of snows. The bland 
“Croupier,” on whose impassive countenance 
no shade of fortune was able to mark even a 
passing emotion, is now seen higgling with a 
peasant for a sack of charcoal, in all the eager- 
ness of avarice. The trim maiden, whose gold- 
en locks and soft blue eyes made the bouquets 
she sold seem fairer to look on, is a stout wench, 
whose uncouth fur cap and wooden shoes are 
the very antidotes to romance. All the trans- 


formations take the same sad colors. It is a 
pantomime read backward. 

Such was Baden-Baden in the November of 
182—. Some weeks of bad and broken weather 
had scattered and dispersed all the gay company. 
The hotels and assembly-rooms were closed for 
the winter. The ball-room, which so lately was 
alight with a thousand tapers, was now barri- 
caded like a jail. The very post-office, around 
which each morning an eager and pressing 
crowd used to gather, was shut up ; one small 
aperture alone remaining as if to show to what 
a fraction all correspondence had been reduced. 
The Hotel de Russie was the only house open 
in the little town ; but although the door lay 
ajar, no busy throng of waiters, no lamps, in- 
vited the traveler to believe a hospitable recep- 
tion might await him within. A very brief 
glance inside would soon have dispelled any 
such illusion had it ever existed. The wide 
staircase, formerly lined with orange-trees and 
camellias, was sti'ipped of all its bright foliage ; 
the marble statues were removed ; the great 
thermometer, whose crystal decorations had 
arrested many a passing look, was now encased 
within a wooden box, as if its tell-tale face 
might reveal unpleasant ti'uths, if left exposed. 

The spacious “ Saal,” where some eighty 
guests assembled every day, was denuded of all 
its furniture, mirrors and lustres ; bronzes and 
pictures were gone, and nothing remained but 
a huge earthenware stove, within whose grat- 
ing a faded nosegay — left there in summer — 
defied all speculations as to a fire. 

In this comfortless chamber three persons 
now paraded with that quick step and brisk 
motion that bespeak a walk for warmth and ex- 
ercise ; for dismal as it was within doors, it 
was still preferable to the scene without, where 
a cold incessant rain was falling, that, on the 
hills around, took the form of snow. The last 
lingerers at a watering-place, like those who 
cling on to a wreck, have usually something 


o 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


peculiarly sad in their aspect. Unable, as it 
were, to brave the waves like strong swimmers, 
they hold on to the last, with some vague hope 
of escape, and, like a shipwrecked crew, draw- 
ing closer to each other in adversity than in 
more prosperous times, they condescend now to 
acquaintance and even intimacy, where, before, 
a mere nod of recognition was alone inter- 
changed. Such were the three who now, but- 
toned up to the chin, and with hands deeply 
thrust into side pockets, paced backward and 
forward, sometimes exchanging a few words, 
but in that broken and discursive fashion that 
showed that no tie of mutual taste or compan- 
ionship had bound them together. 

The youngest of the party was a small and 
very slightly made man of about five or six-and- 
twenty, whose face, voice, and figure were 
almost feminine, and, only for a very slight line 
of black mustache, might have warranted the 
suspicion of a disguise. His lacquered boots 
and spotless yellow gloves appeared somewhat 
out of season, as well as the very light textured 
coat which he wore ; but Mr. Albert Jekyl had 
been accidentally detained at Baden, waiting for 
that cruel remittance which — whether the sin 
be that of agent or relative — is ever so slow of 
coming. That he bore the inconvenience ad- 
mirably (and without the slightest show of im- 
patience) it is but fair to confess, and whatever 
chagrin, either the detention, the bad weather, 
or the solitude may have occasioned, no vestige 
of discontent appeared upon features where a 
look of practiced courtesy, and the most bland 
smile, gave the predominant expression. “Who 
he was,” or, in other wox'ds, whence he came — 
of what family — with what fortune, pursuits, or 
expectations, we are not ashamed to confess our 
utter ignorance, seeing that it was shared by 
all those that tarried that season at Baden, with 
whom, however, he lived on terms of easy and 
familiar intercourse. 

The next to him was a bilious looking man, 
somewhat past the middle of life, with that hard 
and severe cast of features that rather repels 
than invites intimacy. In figure he was com- 
pactly and stoutly built, his step as he walked, 
and his air as he stood, showed one whose mili- 
tary training had given the whole tone to his 
character. Certain strong lines about the 
mouth, and a peculiar puckering of the angles 
of the eyes, boded a turn for sarcasm, which all 
his instincts, and they were Scotch ones, could 
not completely repress. His voice was loud, 
sharp, and ringing ; the voice of a man who, 
when he said a thing, would not brook being 
asked to repeat it. That Colonel Haggerstone 
knew how to be sapling as well as oak, was a 
tradition among those who had served with him, 
still it is right to add, that his more congenial 
mood was the imperative, and that which he 
usually practiced. The accidental lameness of 
one of his horses had detained him some weeks 
at Baden, a durance which assuredly appeared to 
push his temper to its very last intrench ments. 

The third representative of forlorn humanity 


was a very tall, muscular man, whose jockey- 
cut green coat and wide-brimmed hat, contrast- 
ed oddly with a pair of huge white mustaches, 
that would have done credit to a captain of the 
old guard. On features, originally handsome, 
time, poverty, and dissipation, had left many a 
mark; but still the half droll, half truculent 
twinkle of his clear gray eyes, showed him one 
whom no turn of fortune could thoroughly sub- 
due, and who, even in the very hardest of his 
trials, could find heart to indulge his humor — 
for Peter Dalton was an Irishman ; and although 
many years an absentee, held the dear island 
and its prejudices as green in his memory as 
though he had left it but a week before. 

Such were the three — who, without one sym- 
pathy in common, without a point of contact in 
character — were now drawn into a chance ac- 
quaintance by the mere accident of bad w T eather. 
Their conversation, if such it could be called, 
showed how little progress could be made in 
intimacy by those whose roads in life lie apart. 
The by-gone season, the company, the play- 
table and its adventures, were all discussed so 
often, that nothing remained but the weather. 
That topic, so inexhaustible to Englishmen, 
however, offered little variety now, for it had 
been uniformly bad for some weeks past. 

“ Where do you purpose to pass the winter, 
sir?” said Haggerstone to Jekyl, after a some- 
what lengthy lamentation over the probable con- 
dition of all the Alpine passes. 

“I’ve scarcely thought of it yet,” simpered 
out the other, with his habitual smile. “ There’s 
no saying where one ought to pitch his tent ’till 
the Carnival opens.” 

“And you, sir?” asked Haggerstone of his 
companion on the other side. 

“Upon my honor, I don’t know, then,” said 
Dalton ; “ but I wouldn’t wonder if I staid here 
or hereabouts.” 

“ Here ! why, this is Tobolsk, sir ! you surely 
couldn’t mean to pass a winter here ?” 

“I once knew a man who did it,” interposed 
Jekyl, blandly. “ They cleaned him out at ‘ the 
tables,’ and so he had nothing for it but to re- 
main. He made rather a good thing of it, too ; 
for it seems these worthy people, however con- 
versant with the great arts of ruin, had never 
seen the royal game of thimble-rig; and Frank 
Mathews walked into them all, and contrived to 
keep himself in beet-root and boiled beef by his 
little talents.” 

“Wasn’t that the fellow who was broke at 
Kilmagund?” croaked Haggerstone. 

“ Something happened to him in India ; I 
never well knew what,” simpered Jekyl. “ Some 
said he had caught the cholera ; others, that ho 
had got into the Company’s service.” 

“ By way of a mishap, sir, I suppose,” said 
the colonel, tartly. 

“ He wouldn’t have minded it, in the least. 
For certain,” resumed the other coolly, “he 
was a sharp-witted fellow ; always ready to 
take the tone of any society.” 

The colonel’s cheek grew yellower, and his 


TnE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


eyes sparkled with an angrier lustre ; but he 
made no rejoinder. 

“That’ s the place to make a fortune, I’m 
told,” said Dalton. “I hear there’s not the 
like of it all the world over.” 

“Or to spend one,” added Haggerstone, 
curtly. 

“ Well, and why not?” replied Dalton. “I’m 
sure it’s as pleasant assaying — barring a man’s 
a Scotchman.” 

“And if he should be, sir? and if he were 
one that now stands before you?” said Hag- 
gerstone, drawing himself proudly up, and look- 
ing the other sternly in the face. 

“ No offense ; no offense in life. I didn’t 
mean to hurt your feelings. Sure, a man can’t 
help where he’s going to be born.” 

“ I fancy we’d all have booked ourselves for 
a cradle in Buckingham Palace,” interposed 
Jekyl, “ if the matter were optional.” 

“Faith! I don’t think so,” broke in Dalton. 
“ Give me back Corrig-o’-Neal, as my Grand- 
father Pearce had it, w T ith the whole barony 
of Kilmurray-o’-Mahon, two packs of hounds, 
and the first cellar in the county, and to the 
devil I’d fling all the royal residences ever I 
seen.” 

“ The sentiment is scarcely a loyal one, sir,” 
said Haggerstone, “ and as one wearing his 
majesty’s cloth, I beg to take the liberty of re- 
minding you of it.” 

“ Maybe it isn’t ; and what then ?” said 
Dalton, over whose good-natured countenance 
a passing cloud of displeasure lowered. 

“ Simply, sir, that it shouldn’t be uttered in 
my presence,” said Haggerstone. 

“Phew!” said Dalton, with a long whistle. 
“Is that what you’re at? See, now — ” Here 
he turned fully round, so as to face the colonel 
— “see, now; I’m the dullest fellow in the 
world at what is called ‘ taking a thing up ;’ 
but make it clear for me — let me only see 
what is pleasing to the company, and it isn’t 
Peter Dalton will balk your fancy.” 

“ May I venture to remark,” said Jekyl, 
blandly, “ that you are both in error, and how- 
ever I may (the cold of the season being con- 
sidered) envy your w’armth, it is, after all, only 
so much caloric needlessly expended.” 

“I wasn’t choleric at all,” broke in Dalton, 
mistaking the word, and thus happily, by the 
hearty laugh his blunder created, bringing the 
silly altercation to an end. 

“Well,” said Haggerstone, “since we are all 
so perfectly agreed in our sentiments, we couldn’t 
do better than dine together, and have a bumper 
to the king’s health.” 

“I always dine at two, or half past,” sim- 
pered Jekyl: “besides, I’m on a regimen, and 
never drink wine.” 

“ There’s nobody likes a bit of conviviality 
better than myself,” said Dalton; “but I’ve a 
kind of engagement — a promise I made this 
morning.” 

There was an evident confusion in the way 
these words were uttered, which did not escape 


3 

either of the others, who exchanged the most 
significant glances as he spoke. 

“What have we here?” cried Jekyl. as he 
sprang to the window and looked out. “ A 
courier by all that’s muddy ? Who could 
have expected such an apparition at this 
time ?” 

“What can bring people here now?” said 
Haggerstone, as with his glass to his eye he 
surveyed the little well-fed figure, who, in his 
tawdry jacket all slashed with gold, and heavy 
jack-boots, was closely locked in the embraces 
of the landlord. 

Jekyl at once issued forth to learn the news, 
and, although not fully three minutes absent, 
returned to his companions with a full account 
of the expected arrivals. 

“ It’s that rich banker, Sir Stafford Onslow, 
with his family. They were on their way to 
Italy, and made a mess of it somehow in the 
Black Forest; they got swept away by a tor- 
rent, or orushed by an avalanche, or something 
of the kind, and Sir Stafford was seized with 
the gout, and so they’ve put back, glad even to 
make such a port as Baden.” 

“ If it’s the gout’s the matter with him,” 
said Dalton, “ I’ve the finest receipt in the 
world. Take a pint of spirits — poteen, if you 
can get it — beat up two eggs and a pat of but- 
ter in it ; throw in a clove of garlic and a few 
scrapings of horse-radish, let it simmer over the 
fire for a minute or two, stir it with a sprig of 
rosemary to give it a flavor, and then drink it 
off.” 

“ Gracious Heaven ! what a dose !” ex- 
claimed Jekyl, in horror. 

“ Well, then, I never knew it fail. My 
father took it for forty years, and there wasn’t 
a haler man in the country. If it wasn’t that 
he gave up the horse-radish, for he didn’t like the 
taste of it, he’d, maybe, be alive at this hour.” 

“ The cure was rather slow of operation,” 
said Haggerstone, with a sneer. 

“’Twas only the more like all remedies for 
Irish grievances, then,” observed Dalton, and 
his face grew a shade graver as he spoke. 

“Who was it this Onslow married?” said 
the colonel, turning to Jekyl. 

“ One of the Headworths, I think.” 

“ Ah, to be sure ; Lady Hester. She was a 
handsome woman when I saw her first, but she 
fell off sadly, and indeed, if she had not, she’d 
scarcely have condescended to an alliance with 
a man in trade, even though he were Sir Gil- 
bert Stafford.” 

“Sir Gilbert Stafford!” repeated Dalton. 

“Yes, sir; and now Sir Gifford Stafford 
Onslow. He took the name from that estate 
in Warwickshire. Skepton Park, I believe they 
call it.” 

“ By my conscience, I wish that was the 
only thing he took,” ejaculated Dalton, with a 
degree of fervor that astonished the others, “ for 
he took an elegant estate that belonged by right 
to my wife. Maybe you have heard tell of 
Corrig-o’-Neal ?” 


4 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Haggerstone shook his head, while with his 
elbow he nudged his companion, to intimate his 
total disbelief in the whole narrative. 

“ Surely you must have heard of the murder 
of Arthur Godfrey, of Corrig-o’-Neal ; wasn’t 
the whole world ringing with it ?” 

Another negative sign answered this appeal. 

“ Well, well, that beats all ever I heard ! 
but so it is, sorrow bit they care in England if 
we all murdered each other ! Arthur Godfrey, 
as I was saying, was my wife’s brother — there 
were just the two of them, Arthur and Jane — 
she was my wife.” 

“ Ah ! here they come !” exclaimed Jekyl, 
not sorry for the event which so opportunely 
interrupted Dalton’s. unpromising history. And 
now a heavy traveling carriage, loaded with 
imperials and beset with boxes, was dragged 
up to the door by six smoking horses. The 
courier and the landlord were immediately in 
attendance, and after a brief delay the steps 
were lowered, and a short, stout man, with a 
very red face, and a yellow wig, descended, 
and assisted a lady to alight. She was a tall 
woman, whose figure and carriage were char- 
acterized by an air of fashion. After her came 
a younger lady, and lastly — moving with great 
difficulty, and showing by his worn looks and 
enfeebled frame the suffering he had endured — 
came a very thin, mild-looking man of about 
sixty. Leaning upon the arm of the courier at 
one side, and of his stout companion, whom he 
called Doctor, at the other, he slowly followed 
the ladies into the house. They had scarcely 
disappeared, when a caleche, drawn by three 
horses at a sharp gallop, drew \ip, and a young 
fellow sprang out, whose easy gestures and 
active movements showed that all the enjoy- 
ments of wealth, and all the blandishments of 
fashion, had not undermined the elastic vigor of 
body which young Englishmen owe to the prac- 
tice of field sports. 


“ This place quite deserted, I suppose,” cried 
he, addressing the landlord. “No one here?” 

“No one, sir. All gone,” was the reply. 

Haggerstone’s head shook with a movement 
of impatience as he heard this remark, dispar- 
aging, as it was, to his own importance ; but 
he said nothing, and resumed his walk as be- 
fore. 

“ Our Irish friend is gone away, I perceive,” 
said Jekyl, as he looked around in vain for Dal- 
ton. “Do you believe all that story of the 
estate he told us ?” 

“ Not a syllable of it, sir. I never yet met 
an Irishman — and it has been my lot to know 
some scores of them — who had not been cheat- 
ed out of a magnificent property, and was not 
related to half the peerage to boot. Now, I 
take it, that our highly-connected friend is 
rather out at elbows !” And he laughed his 
own peculiar hard laugh, as though the mere 
fancy of another man’s poverty was something 
inconceivably pleasant and amusing. 

“ Dinner, sir,” said the waiter, entering, and 
addressing the colonel. 

“Glad of it,” cried he; “it’s the only way 
to kill time in this cursed place and so saying, 
and without the ceremony of a good-by to his 
companion, the colonel bustled out of the room 
with a step intended to represent extreme 
youth and activity. “That ge.tleman dines at 
two?” asked he of the waiter, as he followed 
him up the stairs. 

“ He has not dined at all, sir, for some days 
back,” said the waiter. “ A cup of coffee in 
the morning, and a biscuit are all that he 
takes.” 

The colonel made an expressive gesture by 
turning out the lining of his pocket. 

“Yes, sir,” replied the other significantly ; 

“ very much that way, I believe.” And with 
that he uncovered the soup, and the colonel 
arranged his napkin, and prepared to dine. 


CHAPTER II. 

AN HUMBLE INTERIOR. 


When Dalton parted from his companions at 
the “Russie,” it was to proceed by many an 
intricate and narrow passage to a remote part 
of the upper town, where close to the garden 
wall of the ducal palace stood, and still stands, 
a little solitary two storied house, framed in 
wood, and the partitions displaying some very 
faded traces of fresco painting. Here was the 
well-known shop of a toy-maker ; and although 
now closely barred and shuttered, in summer 
many a gay and merry troop of children de- 
voured with eager eyes the treasures of Hans 
Roeckle. 

Entering a dark and narrow passage beside 
the shop, Dalton ascended the little creaking 
stairs which led to the second story. The land- 
ing-place was covered with fire-wood, great 
branches of newly-hewn beech and oak, in the 
midst of which stood a youth, hatchet in hand, 
busily engaged in chopping and splitting the 
heavy masses around him. The flush of exer- 
cise upon his cheek suited well the character 
of a figure which, clothed only in shirt and 
trowsers, presented a perfect picture of youthful 
strength and symmetry. 

“Tired, Frank?” asked the old man, as he 
came up. 

“ Tired father ! not a bit of it. I only wish 
I had as much more to split for you, since the 
winter will be a cold one.” 

“Come in and sit down, boy, now,” said the 
father, with a slight tremor as he spoke. 
“ We can not have many more opportunities of 
talking together. To-morrow is the twenty- 
eighth of November.” 

“ Yes ; and I must be in Vienna by the fourth, 
so uncle Stephen writes.” 

“You must not call him uncle, Frank, he 
forbids it himself ; besides, he is my uncle, not 
yours. My father and he were brothers, but 
never saw each other after fifteen years of age, 
when the count — that’s what we always call 
him — entered the Austrian service, so that we 
are all strangers to each other.” 

“ His letter doesn’t show any lively desire for 
a closer intimacy,” said the boy, laughing. 
“ A droll composition it is, spelling, and all.” 

“ He left Ireland when he was a child, and 
lucky he was to do so,” sighed Dalton, heavily : 
“ I wish I had done the same.” 

The chamber into which they entered was, 
although scrupulously clean and neat, marked 
by every sign of poverty. The furniture was 


scanty and of the humblest kind. The table 
linen such as used by the peasantry, while the 
great jug of water that stood on the board seem- 
ed the very climax of narrow fortune, in a land 
where the very poorest are wine-drinkers. 

A small knapsack with a light traveling cap 
on it, and a staff beside it, seemed to attract 
Dalton’s eyes as he sat down. “It is but a 
poor equipment, that yonder, Frank,” said he 
at last, with a forced smile. 

“ The easier carried,” replied the lad, gayly. 

“ Very true,” sighed the other. “ You must 
make the journey on foot.” 

“ And why not, father ? Of what use all this 
good blood, of which I have been told so often 
and so much, if it will not enable a man to 
compete with the low-born peasant. And see 
how this knapsack sits,” cried he, as he threw 
it on his shoulder. “ I doubt if the emperor’s 
pack will be as pleasant to carry.” 

“ So long as you haven’t to carry a heavy 
heart, boy,” said Dalton, with deep emotion, 
“I believe no load is too much.” 

“ If it were not for leaving you and the girls, 
I never could be happier, never more full of 
hope, father. Why should I not win my way 
upward as Count Stephen has done? Loyalty 
and courage are not the birthright of only one 
of our name !” 

“ Bad luck was all the birthright ever I in- 
herited,” said the old man, passionately; “bad 
luck in every thing I touched through life ! 
Where others grew rich, I became a beggar ; 
where they found happiness, I met misery and 
ruin ! But it’s not of this I ought to be think- 
ing now,” cried he, changing his tone. “ Let 
us see, where are the girls ?” And so saying, 
he entered a little kitchen which adjoined the 
room, and where, engaged in the task of prepar- 
ing the dinner, was a girl, who, though several 
years older, bore a striking resemblance to the 
boy. Over features that must once have been the 
very type of buoyant gayety, years of sorrow and 
suffering had left their deep traces, and the dark 
circles around the eyes betrayed how deeply she 
had known affliction. Ellen Dalton’s figure 
was faulty for want of height in proportion to 
her size, but had another and more grievous 
defect in a lameness, which made her walk with 
the greatest difficulty. This was the conse- 
quence of an accident when riding, a horse hav- 
ing fallen upon her and fractured the hip-bone. 
It was said, too, that she had been engaged to 


6 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


be married at the time, but that her lover, 
shocked, by the disfigurement, had broken off 
the match, and thus made this calamity the sor- 
row of a life long. 

“Where’s Kate?” said the father, as he cast 
a glance around the chamber. 

Ellen drew near, and whispered a few words 
in his ear. 

“ Not in this dreadful weather ; surely, Ellen, 
you didn’t let her go out in such a night as this.” 

“Hush!” murmured she, “Frank will hear 
you ; and remember, father, it is his last night 
with us.” 

“ Couldn’t old Andy have found the place ?” 
asked Dalton ; and, as he spoke, he turned his 
eyes to a corner of the kitchen, where a little 
old man sat in a straw chair peeling turnips, 
while he croned a ditty to himself in a low sing- 
song tone ; his thin weazened features, browned 
by years and smoke, his small scratch wig, and 
the remains of an old scarlet hunting-coat that 
he wore, giving him the strongest resemblance 
to one of the monkeys one sees in a street exhi- 
bition. 

“ Poor Andy !” cried Ellen, “ he’d have lost 
his way twenty times before he got to the 
bridge.” 

“ Faith then he must be greatly altered,” said 
Dalton, “for I’ve seen him track a fox for twen- 
ty miles of ground, when not a dog of the pack 
could come on the trace. Eh, Andy !” cried 
he, aloud, and stooping down so as to be heard 
by the old man, “do you remember the cover 
at Corralin?” 

“ Don’t ask him, father,” said Ellen, eagerly; 
“ he can not sleep for the whole night after his 
old memories have been awakened.” 

The spell, however, had begun to work ; and 
the old man, letting fall both knife and turnip, 
placed his hands on his knees, and in a weak 
reedy treble began a strange monotonous kind 
of air, as if to remind himself of the words, 
which, after a minute or two, he remembered 
thus : 

“ There was old Tom Whaley, 

And Anthony B aillie, 

And Fitzgerald, the Knight of Glynn, 

And Father Clare, 

On his big brown mare, 

That mornin’ at Corralin !” 

“ Well done, Andy ! well done !” exclaimed 
Dalton. “ You're as fresh as a four-year-old.” 

“ Iss !” said Andy, and went on with his song : 

“ And Miles O’Shea, 

On his cropped tail bay, 

W as soon seen ridin’ in. 

He was vexed and crossed 
At the light hoar frost, 

That momin’ at Corralin.” 

'• Go on, Andy ! go on, my boy !” exclaimed 
Dalton, in a rapture at the words that reminded 
him of many a day in the field and many a 
night’s hard carouse. “ What comes next?” 

“ Ay !” cried Andy. 

41 Says he, 4 when the wind 
Laves no sceut behind, 


To keep the dogs out’s a sin; 

I’ll be d — d if 1 stay, 

To lose ray day, 

This mornin’ at Corralin.’ 

But ye see he was out in his recknin’!” cried 
Andy ; “ for, as if 

44 To give him the lie 
There rose a cry 
As the hounds came yelpin’ in, 

And from every throat 
There swelled one note, 

That momin’ at Corralin.” 

A fit of coughing, brought on by a vigorous 
attempt to imitate the cry of a pack, here closed 
Andy’s minstrelsy ; and Ellen, who seemed to 
have anticipated some such catastrophe, now in- 
duced her father to return to the sitting-room, 
while she proceeded to use those principles of 
domestic medicine — clapping on. the back and 
cold water — usually deemed of efficacy in like 
cases. 

“ There now, no more singing, but take up 
your knife and do what I bade you,” said she, 
affecting an air of rebuke; while the old man, 
whose perceptions did not rise above those of a 
spaniel, hung down his head in silence. At the 
same moment the outer door of the kitchen 
opened, and Kate Dalton entered. Taller and 
several years younger than her sister, she was 
in the full pride of that beauty of which blue 
eyes and dark hair are the chief characteristics, 
and is deemed by many as peculiarly Irish. 
Delicately fair, and with features regular as a 
Grecian model, there was a look of brilliant, 
almost of haughty defiance about her, to which 
her gait and carriage seemed to contribute ; nor 
could the humble character of her dress, where 
strictest poverty declared itself, disguise the 
sentiment. 

“ How soon you’re back, dearest,” said Ellen, 
as she took off the dripping cloak from her sis- 
ter’s shoulders. 

“ And only think, Ellen, I was obliged to go 
to Lichtenthal, where little Hans spends all his 
evenings in the winter season, at the c Hahn !’ 
And just fancy his gallantry ! He would see 
me home, and would hold up the umbrella, too, 
over my head, although it kept his own arm at 
full stretch ; while, by the pace we walked, I 
did as much for his legs. It is very ungrateful 
to laugh at him, for he said a hundred pretty 
things to me — about my courage to venture out 
in such weather — about my accent as I spoke 
German — and lastly, in praise of my skill as a 
sculptor. Only fancy, Ellen, what a humilia- 
tion for me to confess that all these pretty devi- 
ces were yours, and not mine; and that my 
craft went no further than seeking for the ma- 
terial which your genius was to fashion.” 

“Genius, Kate!” exclaimed Ellen, laughing. 
“ Has Master Hans been giving you a lesson in 
flattery ; but tell me of your success — which 
has he taken ?” 

“All — every thing!” cried Kate; “for al- 
though at the beginning the little fellow would 
select one figure, and then change it for another, 


7 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


it was easy to see that he could not bring him- 
sell to part with any of them ; now sitting down 
in rapture before the ‘ Traveling Student’ — 
now gazing delightedly at the c Charcoal- 
Burners’ — but all his warmest enthusiasm 
bursting forth as I produced the £ Forest Maid- 
en at the Well.’ He did, indeed, think the 
1 Peddler’ too handsome, but he found no such 
fault with the Maiden : and here, dearest, here 
are the proceeds, for I told him that we must 
have ducats in shining gold for Frank’s new 
crimson pui'se; and here they are:” and she 
held up a purse of gay colors, through whose 
meshes the bright metal glittered. 

“Poor Hans!” said Ellen, feelingly. “It is 
seldom that so humble an artist meets so gen- 
erous a patron.” 

“ He’s coming to-night,” said Kate, as she 
smoothed down the braids of her glossy hair 
before a little glass; “he’s coming to say good- 
by to Frank. He is so fond of Frank, and of 
Frank’s sister, Nelly. Nay, no blushing, dear- 
est ; for myself, I am free to own admiration 
never comes amiss, even when offered by as 
humble a creature as the dwarf, Hans 
Roeckle.” 

“For shame, Kate, for shame! It is this 
idle vanity that stifles honest pride, as rank 
weeds destroy the soil for wholesome plants to 
live in.” 

“It is very well for you, Nelly, to talk of 
pride, but poor things like myself are fain to 
content themselves with the baser metal, and 
even put up with vanity ! There now, no ser- 
mons, no seriousness; I’ll listen to nothing to- 
day that savors of sadness, and as I hear Pa and 
Frank laughing, I’ll be of the party.” 

The glance of affection and admiration which 
Ellen bestowed upon her sister, was not un- 
mixed with an expression of painful anxiety ; 
and the sigh that escaped her told with what 
tender interest she watched over her. 

The little dinner, prepared with more than 
usual care, at length appeared, and the family 
sat around the humble board with a sense of 
happiness dashed by one only reflection — that 
on the morrow Frank’s place would be va- 
cant. 

Still each exerted himself to overcome the 
sadness of that thought, or even to dally with 
it, as one suggestive of pleasure ; and when 
Ellen placed unexpectedly a great flask of 
Margraer before them to drink the young 
soldier’s health, the zest and merriment rose to 
the highest. Nor was old Andy forgotten in 
the general joy. A large bumper of wine was 
put before him, and the door of the sitting-room 
left open, as if to let him participate in the 
merry noises that prevailed there. How natu- 
rally, and instinctively, too, their hopes gave 
color to all they said, as they told each other 
that the occasion was a happy one ! that dear 
Frank would soon be an officer, and of course 
distinguished by the favor of some one high in 
power ; and, lastly, they dwelt with such com- 
placency on the affectionate regard and influence 


of “Count Stephen” as certain to secure the 
youth’s advancement. They had often heard 
of the count’s great military fame, and the 
esteem in which he was held by the court of 
Vienna; and now they speculated on the delight 
it w T ould afford the old warrior — who had never 
been married himself — to have one like Frank, 
to assist by his patronage, and promote by his 
influence, and with such enthusiasm did they 
discuss the point, that at last they actually per- 
suaded themselves that Frank’s entering the 
service was a species of devotion to his relative’s 
interests, by affording him an object worthy of 
his regard and affection. 

While Ellen loved to dwell upon the great 
advantages of one who should be like a father 
to the boy, aiding him by wise counsel, and 
guiding him in every difficulty, Kate preferred 
to fancy the count introducing Frank into all 
the brilliant society of the splendid capital, pre- 
senting him to those whose acquaintance was 
distinction, and at once launching him into the 
world of fashion and enjoyment. The prompt- 
itude with which he acceded to their father’s 
application on Frank’s behalf, was constantly 
referred to as the evidence of his affectionate 
feeling for the family; and if his one solitary 
letter was of the very briefest and driest of all 
epistolary essays, they accounted for this, very 
naturally, by the length of time which had 
elapsed since he had either spoken or written 
his native language. 

In the midst of these self-gratulations and 
pleasant fancies the door opened, and Hans 
Roeckle appeared, covered from head to foot 
by a light hoar frost, that made him look like 
the figure with which an ingenious confectioner 
sometimes decorates a cake. The dwarf stood 
staring at the signs of a conviviality so new and 
unexpected. 

“ Is this Christmas time, or Holy Monday, or 
the Three Kings’ festival, or what is it, that I 
see you all feasting ?” cried Hans, shaking the 
snow T off his hat, and proceeding to remove a 
cloak which he had draped over his shoulder in 
most artistic folds. 

“We were drinking Frank’s health, Master 
Hans,” said Dalton, “before he leaves us. 
Come ever and pledge him too, and wish him 
all success, and that he may live to be a good 
and valued soldier of the emperor.” 

Hans had by this time taken off his cloak, 
which, by mounting on a chair, he contrived to 
hang up, and now approached the table with 
great solemnity, a pair of immense boots of 
Russian leather, that reached to his hips, giving 
him a peculiarly cumbx-ous and heavy gait ; but 
these, as well as a long vest of rabbit skins 
that buttoned close to the neck, made his in- 
variable costume in the winter. 

“ I drink,” said the dwarf, as, filling a bump- 
er, ho turned to each of the company severally ; 
“ I drink to the venerable father and the fair 
maidens, and the promising youth of this good 
family, and I wish them evory blessing good 
Christians ought to ask for ; but as for killing 


8 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


and slaying, for burning villages and laying 
waste cities, I’ve no sympathy with these.” 

“ But you are speaking of barbarous times, 
Master Hans,” said Kate, whose cheek mantled 
into scarlet as she spoke, “ when to be strong 
was to be cruel, and when ill-disciplined hordes 
tyrannized over good citizens.” 

“ I am talking of soldiers, such as the world 
has ever seen them,” cried Hans, passionately ; 
but of whose military experiences, it is but fair 
to say, his own little toy-shop supplied all the 
source. “What are they?” cried he, “but 
toys that never last, whether he who plays 
with them be Child or Kaiser ! always getting 
smashed, heads knocked off here, arms and 
legs astray there ; ay, and strangest of all, 
thought most of when most disabled ! and then 
at last packed up in a box or a barrack, it mat- 
ters not which, to be forgotten and seen no 
more ! Hadst thou thought of something use- 
ful, boy — some good craft, a Jager with a 
corkscrew inside of him, a tailor that turns into 
a pair of snuffers, a Dutch lady that makes a 
pincushion — these are toys people don’t weary 
of — but a soldier ! to stand ever thus” — and 
Hans shouldered the fire-shovel, and stood “at 
the present.” “ To wheel about so — walk ten 
steps here — ten back there — never so much as 
a glance at the pretty girl who is passing close 
beside you.” Here he gave a look of such 
indescribable tenderness toward Kate, that the 
whole party burst into a fit of laughter. “ They 
would have drawn me for the conscription,” 
said Hans, proudly, “ but I was the only son of 
a widow, and they could not.” 

“ And are you never grieved to think what 
glorious opportunities of distinction have been 
thus lost to you ?” said Kate, who, notwithstand- 
ing Ellen’s imploring looks, could not resist the 
temptation of amusing herself with the dwarfs 
vanity. 

“ I have never suffered that thought to weigh 
upon me,” cried Hans, with the most unsus- 
pecting simplicity. “It is true, I might have 
risen to rank and honors ; but how would they 
have suited we, or I them? Or how should I 
have made those dearest to me sharers in a 
fortune so unbecoming to us all? Think of 
poor Hans’ old mother, if her son were to ask 
her blessing with a coat all glittering with stars 
and crosses ; and then think of her as I have 
seen her, when I go, as I do every year, to visit 
her in the Bregentzer Wald, when she comes 
out to meet me with our whole village, proud 
of her son, and yet not ashamed of herself. 
That is glory — that is distinction enough for 
Hans Roeckle.” 

The earnestness of his voice, and the honest 
manliness of his sentiments, were more than 
enough to cover the venial errors of a vanity 
that was all simplicity. It is true that Hans 
saw the world only through the medium of his 
own calling, and that not a very exalted one ; 
but still there went through all the narrowness 
of his views a tone of kindliness — a hearty spirit 
of benevolence that made his simplicity at times 


rise into something almost akin to wisdom. He 
had known the Daltons as his tenants, and soon 
perceived that they were not like those rich 
English, from whom his countrymen derive 
such abundant gains. He saw them arrive at 
a season when all others were taking their de- 
parture, and detected in all their efforts at 
economy, not alone that they were poor, but, 
sadder still, that they were of those who seem 
never to accustom themselves to the privations 
of narrow fortune ; for, while some submit in 
patience to their humble lot, with others, life is 
one long and hard-fought struggle, wherein 
health, hope, and temper are expended in vain. 
That the Daltons maintained a distance and 
reserve toward others of like fortune did, indeed, 
puzzle honest Hans — perhaps it displeased him 
too — for he thought it might be pride; but then 
their treatment of himself disarmed that sus- 
picion, for they not only received him ever 
cordially, but with every sign of real affection, 
and what was he to expect such ? Nor wero 
these the only traits that fascinated him; for 
all the rugged shell, the kernel was a heart 
as tender, as warm, and as full of generous 
emotions, as ever beat within an ampler breast. 
The two sisters, in Hans’ eyes, were alike 
beautiful ; each had some grace or charm that 
he had never met with before, nor could he 
ever satisfy himself whether his fancy was more 
taken by Kate’s wit, or by Ellen’s gentleness. 

If any thing were needed to complete the 
measure of his admiration, their skill in carving 
those wooden figures which he sold, would have 
been sufficient. These were in his eyes — nor 
was he a mean connoisseur — high efforts of 
genius ; and Hans saw in them a poetry and a 
truthfulness to nature that such productions 
rarely, if ever, possess. To sell such things 
as mere toys, he regarded as little short of a 
sacrilege, while even to part with them at all, 
cost him a pang like that the gold- worker of 
Florence experienced, when he saw some treas- 
ure of Benvenuto’s chisel leave his possession. 
Not, indeed, that honest Hans had to struggle 
against that criminal passion which prompted 
the jeweler, even by deeds of assassination, to 
repossess himself of the coveted objects ; nay, 
on the contrary, he felt a kindness and a degree 
of interest toward those in whose keeping they 
were, as if some secret sympathy united them 
to each other. 

Is it any wonder if poor Hans forgot himself 
in such pleasant company, and sat a full hour 
and a half longer than he ought ? To him the 
little intervals of silence that were occasionally 
suffered to intervene, were but moments of 
dreamy and delicious reverie, wherein his fancy 
wandered away in a thousand pleasant paths ; 
and when at last the watchmen — for remember, 
good reader, they were in that primitive Ger- 
many, where customs change not too abruptly 
— announced two o’clock, little Hans did not 
vouchsafe a grateful response to the quaint old 
rhyme that was chanted beneath the window. 

“That little chap would sit to the day of 


9 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


judgment, and never ask to wet his lips,” said 
Dalton, as Frank accompanied the dwarf down 
stairs to the street door. 

“ I believe he not only forgot the hour, but 
where he was, and every thing else,” said 
Kate. 

“ And poor Frank ! who should have been in 
bed some hours ago,” sighed Nelly. 

“ Gone at last, girls,” exclaimed Frank, as 
he entered laughing. u If it hadn’t been a gust 
of wind that caught him at the door, and carried 
him clean away, our leave-taking might have 
lasted till morning. Poor fellow he had so many 
cautions to give me — such mountains of good 
counsel ; and see, here is a holy medal he made 
me accept. He told me the ‘ Swedes’ would 
never harm me so long as I wore it. He still 
fancies that we are in the Thirty Years’ War.” 

In a hearty laugh over Hans Roeckle’s polit- 
ical knowledge, they wished each other an af- 
fectionate good-night, and separated. Frank 
was to have his breakfast by daybreak, and each 
sister affected to leave the care of that meal to 
the other, secretly resolving to be up and stir- 
ring first. 

- Save old Andy, there was not one disposed 
to sleep that night. All were too full of their 
own cares. Even Dalton himself, blunted as 
were his feelings by a long life of suffering, his 
mind was tortured by anxieties ; and one sad 
question arose again and again before him, with- 
out an answer ever occurring. “What is to 
become of the girls when I am gone ? Without 
a home, thay will soon be without a protector !” 
The bright fancies, the hopeful visions in which 
the evening had been passed, made the revulsion 
to these gloomy thoughts the darker. He lay 


with his hands pressed upon his face, while the 
hot tears gushed from eyes that never before 
knew weeping. 

At moments he half resolved not to let Frank 
depart, but an instant’s thought showed him 
how futile would be the change. It would bo 
but leaving him to share the poverty — to de- 
pend upon the scanty pittance already too little 
for themselves. “ Would Count Stephen befriend 
the poor girls ?” he asked himself over and over ; 
and in his difficulty he turned to the strange 
epistle, in which the old general announced 
Frank’s appointment as a cadet. 

The paper, the square folding, the straight, 
stiff letters, well suited a style which plainly 
proclaimed how many years his English had 
lain at rest. The note ran thus : 

“ Graben-Wein, Octobre 9, 18 — 

“ Worthy Sir and Nephew — 

“ Your kindly greeting, but long-time-on-the- 
road-coming-letter is in my hands. It is to ma 
pleasure that I announce the appointment of your 
son as a cadet in the seventh battalion of the 
Carl-Franz Infanterie. So with, let him in all 
speed of time report himself here at Wein, be- 
fore the War’s Minister, bringing his Tauf- 
schein — Baptism’s sign — as proof of Individual- 
ism. 

“I am yours, well to command, and much 
loving kinsman, 

“ Graf. Dalton von Auersberg, 

“ Lieut.-General and Feld-Zeug 
“Meister, K. K. A. 

“ To the high and well-born, the Frei Herr 
v. Dalton, in Baden-Baden.” 


CHAPTER III. 

“THE FOREST ROAD.” 


This dry epistle Dalton read and re-read, try- 
ing, if not to discover some touch of kindliness 
or interest, to detect, at least, some clew to its 
writer’s nature ; but to no use, its quaint form- 
alism baffled all speculation, and he gave up the 
pursuit in despair. That “the count” was his 
father’s only brother*, and a “ Dalton,” were the 
only grains of comfort he could extract from his 
meditations; but he had lived long enough in 
the world to know how little binding were the 
tics of kindred when once slackened by years 
and distance. The count might, therefore, re- 
gard them in the light of intruders, and feel the 
very reverse of pleasure at the revival of a re- 
lationship which had slept for more than half a 
century. Dalton’s pride — or what he thought 
his pride — revolted against this thought; for, 
although this same pride would not have with- 
held him from asking a favor of the count, 
it would have assumed a most indignant atti- 
tude if refused, or even grudgingly accorded. 

When the thought first occurred to him of ap- 
plying to his uncle in Frank’s behalf, he never 
hesitated about the propriety of addressing a re- 
quest to one with whom he had never inter- 
changed a line in all his life ; and now he was 
quite ready to take offense, if all the warmth 
of blood relationship, should not fill the heart 
of him, who had been an exile from home and 
family, since his earliest boyhood. , 

An easy, indolent selfishness had been the 
spirit of Dalton’s whole life. He liked to keep 
a good house, and to see company about him ; 
and this obtained for him the reputation of hos- 
pitality. He disliked unpopularity, and dread- 
ed the “bad word” of the people; and hence 
he suffered his tenantry to fall into arrears 
and his estate into ruin. A vain rivalry with 
wealthier neighbors, prevented retrenchment 
when his means were lessened. The unthink- 
ing selfishness of his nature was apparent even 
in his marriage, since it was in obedience to an 
old pledge extracted years before, that Miss 
Godfrey accepted him, and parted in anger 
with her brother, who had ever loved her with 
the warmest affection. Mr. Godfrey never for- 
gave his sister ; and at his death, the mysterious 
circumstances of which were never cleared up, 
his estate passed to a distant relative, the rich 
Sir Gilbert Stafford. 

Dalton, who long cherished the hope of a rec- 
onciliation, saw all prospect vanish when his 
wife died, which she did, it was said, of a broken 


heart. His debts were already considerable; 
and all the resources of borrowing and mort- 
gage had been long since exhausted ; nothing 
was then left for him but an arrangement with 
his creditors, which, giving him a pittance 
scarcely above the very closest poverty, enabled 
him to drag out life in the cheap places of the 
continent ; and thus, for nigh twenty years, had 
he wandered about from Dieppe to Ostend, to 
Bruges, to Dusseldorf, to Coblentz, and so on, 
among the small ducal cities, till, with still fail- 
ing fortune, he was fain to seek a residence for 
the winter in Baden, where house-rent, at least, 
would be almost saved to him. 

The same apathy that had brought on his 
ruin enabled him to bear it. Nothing has such 
a mock resemblance to wisdom, as utter heart- 
lessness; with all the seeming of true philoso- 
phy, it assumes a port and bearing above the 
trials of the world ; holds on “ the even tenor 
of its way,” undeterred by the reverses which 
overwhelm others, and even meets the sternest 
frowns of fortune with the bland smile of equa- 
nimity. 

In this way Dalton had deceived many who 
had known him in better days, and who now saw 
him even in his adversity, with the same care- 
less, good-natured look, as when he took the 
field with his own hounds, or passed round the 
claret at his own table. Even his own children 
were sharers in this delusion, and heard him 
with wondering admiration, as he told of the 
life he used to lead, and the style he once kept 
up at Mount Dalton. These were his favorite 
topics ; and, as he grew older, he seemed to 
find a kind of consolation in contrasting all the 
hard rubs of present adversity with his once 
splendor. 

Upon Ellen Dalton, who had known and could 
still remember her mother, these recitals pro- 
duced an impression of profound grief, associated 
as they were with the sufferings of a sick bed 
and the closing sorrows of a life. While, in 
the others, they served to keep up a species of 
pride of birth, and an assumption of superiority 
to others of like fortune, which their father 
gloried in, representing as he used to say, “ the 
old spirit of the Daltons.” 

As for Kate, she felt it a compensation for 
present poverty to know that they were of gon- 
lle blood, and that if fortune, at some distant 
future, would deal kindly by them, to think that 
they should not obtrude themselves like upstarts 


11 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


on the world, but resume, as it were, the place 
that was long their own. 

In Frank the evil had taken a deeper root. 
Taught from his earliest infancy to believe him- 
self the heir of an ancient house, pride of birth 
and station instilled into his mind by old Andy 
the huntsman, the only dependent who, with 
characteristic wisdom, they had carried with 
them from Ireland, he never ceased to ponder 
on the subject, and wonder within himself if he 
should ever live to have “ his own” again. 

Such a hold had this passion taken of him, 
that, even as a child, he would wander away 
for days long into lonely and unfrequented spots, 
thinking over the stories he had heard, and try- 
ing to conjure up before his eyes some resem- 
blance to that ancient house and venerable 
domain which had been so long in his family. 
It was no part of his teaching to know by what 
spendthrift and reckless waste, by what a long 
career of folly, extravagance, and dissipation, 
the fortune of his family had been wrecked ; or 
rather, many vague and shadowy suspicions had 
been left to fester in his mind of wrongs and 
injuries done them ; of severe laws imposed by 
English ignorance or cruelty : of injustice, on 
this hand — heartless indifference of friends on 
the other; the unrelenting anger of his uncle 
Godfrey, filling up the measure of their calam- 
ities. Frank Dalton’s education went very little 
further than this ; but bad as it was, its effect 
was blunted by the natural frankness and gen- 
erosity of his character, its worst fruits being 
an over-estimate of himself and his pretensions 
— errors which the world has always the watch- 
ful kindness to correct in those who wear thread- 
bare coats' and patched boots. 

He was warmly and devotedly attached to 
his father and sisters, and whatever bitterness 
found its way into his heart was from seeing 
them enduring the many trials of poverty. 

All his enthusiasm for the service into which 
he was about to enter was, therefore, barely 
sufficient to overcome the sorrow of parting 
with those, whom alone of all the world he 
loved; and when the moment drew nigh for his 
departure, he forgot the bright illusions by 
which he had so often fed his hopes, and could 
only think of the grief of separation. 

His candle had burned down, nearly to the 
socket, when he arose and looked at his watch. 
It was all dark as midnight without, although 
nigh six o’clock. He opened the window, and 
a thin snow-drift came slanting in, borne on a 
cutting north wind ; he closed it hastily, and 
shuddered as he thought of the long and lonely 
march before him. All was silent in the house 
as he dressed himself and prepared for the road. 
With noiseless step he drew near his father’s 
door -and listened; every thing was still. Tie 
could not bring himself to disturb him, so he 
passed on to the room where his sisters slept. 
The door lay ajar, and a candle was burning on 
the table. Frank entered on tip-toe, and drew 
near the bed, but it was empty and had not 
been lain in. As he turned round he beheld 


Kate asleep in a chair, dressed as he had 
last seen her. She had never lain down, and 
the prayer-book which had dropped from her 
hand, told how her last waking moments were 

passed. 

He kissed her twice, but even the hot tears 
that fell from his eyes upon her cheek did not 
break her slumber. He looked about him for 
some token to leave, that might tell he had 
been there, but there was nothing, and, with a 
low sigh, he stole from the room. 

As he passed out into the kitchen, Ellen was 
there. She had already prepared his break- 
fast, and was spreading the table when he 
entered. 

“ How good of you — how kind, Ellen,” said 
he, as lie passed his arm around her neck. 

“ Hush, Frank, they are both sleeping. Poor 
papa never closed his eyes till half an hour 
ago, and Kate was fairly overcome ere she 
yielded.” 

“You will say that I kissed them, Nelly — 
kissed them twice,” said he in a low, broken 
voice, “and that I couldn’t bear to awake them. 
“ Leave-taking is so sorrowful ! Oh, Ellen, 
if I knew that you were all happy — that there 
were no hardships before you, when I’m away.” 

“ And why should we not, Frank?” said she, 
firmly. “ There is no dishonor in this poverty, 
so long as there are no straits to make it seem 
other than it is. Let us rather pray for the 
spirit that may befit any lot we are thrown in, 
than for a fortune to which we might be un- 
suited.” 

“Would you forget who we are, Ellen?” 
said he, half reproachfully. 

“ I would remember it, Frank, in a temper 
less of pride than humility.” 

“I do not see much of the family spirit in all 
this,” rejoined he, almost angrily. 

“ The family spirit,” echoed she, feelingly. 
“What has it ever done for us, save injury? 
Has it suggested a high-bearing courage against 
the ills of narrow fortune ? Has it told us how 
to bear poverty with dignity, or taught us one 
single lesson of patience and submission? Or 
has it, on the contrary, been ever present to 
whisper the changes in our condition — how 
altered our lot — making us ashamed of that 
companionship which our station rendered pos- 
sible for us, and leaving us in the isolation of 
friendlessness for the sake of — I blush to abuse 
the word — our Pride ! Oh, Frank, my dear, 
dear brother, take it not ill of me, that in our 
last moments together, perhaps, for years, that 
I speak what may jar upon your ears to hear; 
but remember that I am much older — that I 
have seen far more of the world, at least of its 
sorrows and cares, than you have. I have in- 
deed known affliction in many ways, but have 
never found a poorer comforter in its troubles, 
than what we call our Pride !” 

“You would have me forget I am a Dalton, 
then?” said the boy, in a tone of sorrowful 
meaning. 

“ Never ! when the recollection could prompt 


12 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


a generous or a noble action, a manly ambition, 
or a high-hearted thought ; but the name will 
have no spell in it, if used to instill an imperious, 
discontented spirit, a regretful contrast of what 
we are, with what we might have been, or what, 
in a worldly sense, is more destructive still, a 
false reliance on the distinction of a family to 
which we have contributed nothing.” 

“You do not know, Nelly, dearest, of what a 
comfort you have robbed me,” said Frank, sor- 
rowfully. 

“ Do not say so, my dearest brother,” cried 
she, passing her arm around him ; “a deception, 
a mere illusion, is unworthy of that name. Look 
above the gratification of mere vanity, and you 
will become steeled against the many wounds 
self-love is sure to receive in intercourse with 
the world. I can not tell how, or with what 
associates, you are about to live, but I feel cer- 
tain that in every station a man of truth and 
honor will make himself respected. Be such, 
dearest Frank. If family pride, if the name of 
Dalton have value in your eyes, remember that 
upon you it rests to assert its right to distinction. 
If, as I would fondly hope, your heart dwells 
here with us, bethink ye what joy, what holy 
gratitude you will diffuse around our humble 
hearth, to know that our brother is a good 
man.” 

It was some moments ere either could speak 
again. Emotions, very different ones, perhaps, 
filled their hearts, and each was too deeply 
moved for words. Frank's eyes were full of 
tears, and his cheek quivering, as he threw his 
knapsack on his shoulder. 

“You will write from Inspruck, Frank ; but 
how many da} 7 s will it take ere you reach that 
city ?” 

“Twelve or fourteen, at least, if I go on 
foot. There, Nelly, do not help me, dearest ; I 
shall not have you to-morrow 7 to fasten these 
straps.” 

“ This is not to be forgotten, Frank ; it’s 
Kate’s present. How sorry she will be not to 
have given it with her own hands !” and so 
saying, she gave him the purse her sister had 
worked. 

“ But there is gold in it,” said the boy, grow- 
ing pale with emotion. 

“Very little, Frank, dearest,” replied she, 
smiling. “ A cadet must always have gold in 
his purse, so little Hans tells us ; and you know 
how wise he is in all these matters.” 

“ And is it from a home like this, that I am 
to take gold aw r ay !” cried he, passionately. 

“Nay, Frank, you must not persuade us that 
we are so very poor. I will not consent to any 
sense of martyrdom, I promise you.” It w T as 
not without difficulty she could overcome his 
scruples ; nor, perhaps, had she succeeded at 
all, if his thoughts had not been diverted into 
another channel, by a light tapping at the door. 
It was Hans Roeckle come to awake him. 

Again and agairl the brother and sister em- 
braced ; and in a very agony of tears Frank tore 
himself aw T ay, and hastened dow 7 n the stairs. 


The next moment the heavy house-door banged 
loudly, and he w 7 as gone. 

Oh, the loneliness of mind in which he 
threaded his w 7 ay through the dark and narrow 
streets, where the snow already lay deeply ! 
With what sinking of the heart he turned to 
look, for the last time, at the w r indow w T here the 
light, the only one to be seen, still glimmered. 
How little could all the promptings of hope 
suffice against the sad and dark reality that he 
was leaving all he loved, and all who loved him, 
to adventure upon a w r orld w r here all w T as bleak 
and friendless ! 

But not all his dark forebodings could equal 
hers from whom he had just parted. Loving 
her brother w 7 ith an affection more like that of 
mother than sister, she had often thought over 
the traits of his character, where, w 7 ith many a 
noble gift, the evil seeds of wrong teaching had 
left, like tall w 7 eeds among flowers, the baneful 
errors of inordinate self-esteem and pride. Ig- 
norant of the career on which he w 7 as about to 
enter, Ellen could but speculate vaguely how 
such a character would be esteemed, and 
whether his native frankness and generosity 
would cover over, or make appear as foibles, 
these graver faults. Their ow 7 n narrow for- 
tunes, the many straits and privations of poverty, 
with all their cruel wounds to honest pride, and 
all their sore trials of temper, she could bear up 
against w 7 ith an undaunted courage. She had 
learned her lesson in the only school "wherein it 
is taught, and daily habit had instilled its own 
powers of endurance; but for Frank, her am- 
bition hoped a higher and brighter destiny, and 
now, in her solitude, and with a swelling heart, 
she knelt down and prayed for him. And, oh ! 
if the utterings of such devotion never rise to 
Heaven or meet acceptance there, they at least 
bring balm to the spirit of him who syllables 
them, building up a hope w 7 hose foundations are 
above the casualties of humanity, and giving a 
courage that mere self-reliance never gave ! 

Little Hans not only came to awaken Frank, 
but to give him companionship for some miles 
of his way — a thoughtful kindness for which the 
youth’s deep pre-occupation seemed to offer but 
a poor return. Indeed, Frank scarcely knew 
that he was not traveling in utter solitude, and 
all the skillful devices of the worthy dwarf to 
turn the channel of his thoughts were fruitless. 
Had there been sufficient light to have surveyed 
the equipment of his companion, it is more than 
probable that the sight would have done more 
to produce this diversion of gloom than any ar- 
guments which could have been used. Master 
Roeckle, whose mind was a perfect storehouse 
of German horrors, earthly and unearthly, and 
who imagined that a great majority of the human 
population of the globe were either bandits or 
witches, had surrounded himself with a whole 
museum of amulets and charms of various kinds. 
In his cap he wore the tail of a black squirrel, 
as a safeguard against the “ Forest Imp a 
large dried toad hung around his neck, like an 
order, to protect him from the evil eye ; a duck’a 


13 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


foot was fastened to the tassel of his boot, as a 
talisman against drowning ; w y hile strings of 
medals, coins, precious stones, blessed beads, 
and dried insects, hung round and about him in 
every direction. Of all the portions of his equip- 
ment, however, what seemed the most absurd 
was a huge pole-ax of the fifteenth century, and 
which he carried as a defense against mere mor- 
tal foes, but which, from its weight and size, 
appeared far more likely to lay its bearer low 
than inflict injury upon others. It had been orig- 
inally stored up in the Rust Kammer, at Prague, 
and was said to be the identical weapon with 
which Conrad slew the giant at Leutmeritz, a 
fact which warranted Hans in expending two 
hundred florins in purchasing it ; as, to use his 
own emphatic -words, “ It was not every day 
one knew where to find the weapon to bring 
down a giant.” 

As Hans, encumbered by his various adjuncts, 
trotted along beside his stalwart companion, he 
soon discovered that all his conversational abil- 
ity, to exert which cost him so dearly, was ut- 
terly unattended to ; he fell into a moody silence, 
and thus they journeyed for miles of w r ay with- 
out interchanging a word. At last they came 
in sight of the little village of Hernitz Kretschen, 
whence by a by-road Frank was to reach the 
regular line that leads through the Hohlen Thai 
to the Lake of Constance, and where they were 
fo part. 

“I feel as though I could almost go all the 
■way with you,” said Hans, as they stopped to 
gaze upon the little valley w T here lay the village, 
and beyond which stretched a deep forest of 
dark pine trees, traversed by a single road. 

“ Nay, Hans,” said Frank, smiling, as for the 
first time he beheld the strange figure beside 
him ; “ you must go back to your pleasant little 
village and live happily, to do many a kindness 
to others, as you have done to me to-day.” 

“ I would like to take service with the em- 
press myself,” said Hans, “ if it were for some 
good and great cause, like the defense of the 
Church against the Turks, or the extermination 
of the race of dragons that infest the Lower 
Danube.” 

“ But you forget, Hans, it is an emperor 
rules over Austria now,” said Frank, preferring 
to offer a correction to the less startling of his 
hallucinations. 

“ No, no, Master Frank, they have not de- 
posed the good Maria Teresa — they wmuld 
never do that. I saw her picture over the door- 
way of the Burgomeister, the last time I went 
to visit my mother in the Bregantzer Wald, and 
by the same token her crown and sceptre were 
just newly gilt — a thing they would not have 
done if she were not on the throne.” 

“ What if she were dead, and her son too ?” 
said Frank ; but his words were scarce uttered 
when he regretted to have said them, so strik- 
ing was the change that came over the dwarf’s 
features. 

“If that w r ere indeed true, Heaven have 
mercy on us !” exclaimed he, piously. “ Old 


Frederic will have but little pity for good Cath- 
olics ! But no, Master Frank, this can not be. 
The last time I received soldiers from Neurem- 
berg they wore the same uniforms as ever, and 
the ‘ Moriamur pro Rege nostro, M. T.’ w T as in 
gold letters on every banner as before.” 

Frank -was in no humor to disturb so inno- 
cent and so pleasing a delusion, and he gave no 
further opposition, and now they both descended 
the path which led to the little inn of the vil- 
lage. Here Hans insisted on performing the 
part of host, and soon the table was covered 
with brown bread and hard eggs, and those 
great massive sausages which Germans love, 
together with various flasks of Margrafler and 
other “ Badisch” w r ines. 

“Who knows,” said Hans, as he pledged his 
guest by ringing his wine-glass against the 
other’s, “ if, when we meet again, thou wouldst 
sit down at the table with such as me.” 

“ How so, Hanserl ?” asked the boy in aston- 
ishment. 

“I mean, Master Franz, that you may be- 
come a colonel, or perhaps a general, with may- 
hap the { St. Joseph’ at your button-hole, or the 
Maria Teresa around your neck ; and if so, how 
could you take your place at the board with the 
poor toy-maker.” 

“ I am not ashamed to do so now,” said 
Frank, haughtily ; “ and the emperor can not 
make me more a gentleman than my birth has 
done. Were I to be ashamed of those who be- 
friended me, I should both disgrace my rank 
and my name together.” 

“ These are good words, albeit too proud 
ones,” said Hans, thoughtfully. “ As a guide 
through life, pride will do well enough when 
the roads are good and your equipage costly ; 
but w’hen you come upon mountain-paths and 
stony tracts, with many a wild torrent to cross, 
and many a dark glen to traverse, humility — 
even a child’s humility — will give better teach- 
ing.” 

“I have no right to be other than humble !” 
said the boy ; but the flashing brightness of his 
eyes, and the heightened color of hi*s cheek, 
seemed to contradict his words. 

For a w T hile the conversation flagged, or was 
maintained in short and broken sentences, when 
at length Frank said, 

“ You will often go to see them, Hanserl ; 
w T on’t you? You’ll sit with them, too, of an 
evening ? for they will feel lonely now ; and 
my father will like to tell you his stories about 
home, as he calls it still.” 

“That will I,” said Hans; “they are the 
happiest hours of my life when I sit beside that 
hearth.” 

Frank drew T his hand across his eyes, and 
his lips quivered as he tried to speak. 

“ You’ll be kind to poor Ellen, too; she is so 
timid, Hans. You can not believe how anxious 
she is, lest her little carvings should be thought 
unworthy of praise.” 

“ They are gems ! they are treasures of art !” 
cried Hans, enthusiastically. 


14 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ And my sweet Kate !” cried the boy, as 
his eyes ran over, while a throng of emotions 
seemed to stop his utterance. 

“ She is so beautiful !” exclaimed Hans, fer- 
vently. “ Except the Blessed Maria at the 
Holy Cross, I never beheld such loveliness. 
There is the Angelus ringing; let us pray a 
blessing on them,” and they both knelt down 
in deep devotion. Frank’s lips never moved, 
but with swelling heart and clasped hands he 
remained fixed as a statue ; while Hanserl, 
in some quaint old rhyme uttered his devo- 
tions. 

“ And yonder is the dog-star, bright and 
splendid,” said Hans, as he arose. “There 
never was a happier omen for the beginning of 
a journey. You’ll be lucky, boy ; there is the 
earnest of good fortune. That same star was 
shining along the path as I entered Baden, 
eighteen years ago ; and see what a lucky life 
has mine been !” 

Frank could not but smile at the poor dwarf’s 
appreciation of his fortune ; but Hanserl’s fea- 
tures wore a look that betokened a happy and 
contented nature. 

“ And yours has been a lucky life, Hanserl ?” 
said he, half in question. 

“ Lucky ? ay, that has it. I was a poor 
boy, barefooted and hungry in my native forest 
— deformed, and stunted, too — a thing to pity — 
too weak to work, and with none to teach me, 
and yet even I was not forgotten by Him who 
made the world so fair and beautiful ; but in 
my heart was planted a desire to be something 
— to do something, that others might benefit 
by. The children used to mock me as I passed 
along the road ; but a voice whispered within 
me, ‘ Be of courage, Hanserl, they will bless 
thee yet — they will greet thee with many a 
merry laugh and joyous cry, and call thee their 
own kind Hanserl : and so have I lived to see 
it ! My name is far and wide over Germany. 
Little boys and girls know and speak of me 
among the first words they syllable ; and from 
the palace to the bauer’s hut, Hans Roeckle 
has his friends ; and who knows, that when this 
poor clay is mingled with the earth, but that 
my spirit will hover around the Christmas-tree, 
when glad voices call upon me ! I often think 
it will be so.” 

Frank’s eyes glistened as he gazed upon the 
dwarf, who spoke with a’ degree of emotion 
and feeling very different from his wont. 

“ So you see, Master Franz,” said he, smil- 
ing, “ there are ambitions of every hue, and 
this of mine you may deem of the very faintest, 
but it is enough for me. Had I been a great 
painter, or a poet, I would have reveled in the 
thought that my genius adorned the walls of 
many a noble palace, and that my verses kin- 
dled emotions in many a heart that felt like my 
own ; but as one whom nature has not gifted — 
poor, ignoble, and unlettered — am I not lucky 
to have found a little world of joyous hearts, 
and merry voices, who care for me and speak 
of me ? Ay, and who would give me a higher 


' place in their esteem than to Jean Paui, or 
Gothe himself.” 

The friends had but time to pledge each 
other in a parting glass, when the stage drove 
up by which Hans was to return to Baden. A 
few hurried words, half-cheering, half-sorrow- 
ful — a close embrace — one long and lingering 
squeeze of the hand. 

“ Farewell, kind Hanserl.” 

“ God guide thee, Franz — and they parted. 

Frank stood in the little “Platz,” where the 
crowd yet lingered, watching the retiring 
“ Post,” uncertain which way to turn him. 
He dreaded to find himself all alone, and yet 
he shrank from new companionship. The 
newly-risen moon, and the calm air, invited 
him to pursue his road ; so he set out once 
more, the very exercise being a relief against 
his sad thoughts. 

Few words are more easily spoken than 
“He went to seek his fortune;” and what a 
whole world lies within the narrow compass. 
A world of high-hearted hopes and doubting 
fear — of noble ambition to be won, and glorious 
paths to be trod, mingled with tender thoughts 
of home and those who made it such. What 
sustaining courage must be his who dares this 
course and braves that terrible conflict — the 
toughest that ever man fought — between his 
own bright coloring of life and the stern reality 
of the world. How many hopes has he to 
abandon — how many illusions to give up. How 
often is his faith to be falsified and his trustful- 
ness betrayed ; and, worst of all, what a fatal 
change do these trials impress upon himself — 
how different is he, from what he had been. 

Young and untried as Frank Dalton was in 
life, he was not altogether unprepared for the 
vicissitudes that awaited him ; his sister Nelly’s 
teachings had done much to temper the over- 
buoyant spirit of his nature, and make him feel 
that he must draw upon that same courage to 
sustain the present, rather than to gild the 
future. 

His heart was sorrowful too, at leaving a 
home where unitedly they had, perhaps, borne 
up better against poverty. He felt, for his own 
heart revealed it — -how much can be endured in 
companionship, and how the burden of misfor- 
tune — like every other load — is light when many 
bear it. Now, thinking of these things, now, 
fancying the kind of life that might lie before 
him, he marched along. Then he wondered 
whether the count would resemble his father. 
The Daltons were remarkable for strong traits 
of family likeness, not alone in feature, but in 
character — and what a comfort Frank felt in 
fancying that the old general would be a 
thorough Dalton in frankness and kindliness of 
nature, easy in disposition, with all the careless 
freedom of his own father ! How he should love 
him, as one of themselves. 

It is a well-known fact, that certain families 
are remarkable above others for the importance 
that they attach to the ties of kindred, making 
the boast of relationship always superior to the 


15 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


claims of self-formed friendships. This is per- 
haps more peculiarly the case among those who 
live little in the world, and whose daily sayings 
and doings are chiefly confined to the narrow 
circle of home. But yet it is singular, how long 
this prejudice — for perhaps it deserves no better 
name — can stand the conflict of actual life. 
The Daltons were a special instance of what we 
mean. Certain characteristics of look and feat- 
ure distinguished them all, and they all agreed 
in maintaining the claim of relationship as the 
strongest bond of union ; and it was strange, 
into how many minor channels this stream 
meandered. Every old ruin, every monument, 
every fragment of armor, or ancient volume 
associated with their name, assumed a kind of 
religious value in their eyes, and the word 
Dalton was a talisman to exalt the veriest trifle 
into the rank of relic. From his earliest infancy 
Frank had been taught these lessons. They 
were the traditions of the parlor and the kitchen, 
and by the mere force of repetition became a 
part of his very nature. Corrig-O’Neal was the 
theme of every story. The ancient house of the 
family, and which, although by time’s changes 
it had fallen into the hands of the Godfreys — 
from whom his mother came — was yet regarded 
with all the feelings of ancient pride. Over 
and over again was he told of the once princely 
state that his ancestors held there — the troops 
of retainers — the mounted followers that ever 
accompanied them. The old house itself was 
exalted to the rank of a palace, and its wide- 
spreading but neglected grounds spoken of like 
the park of royalty. 

To see this old house of his fathers, to be- 
hold with his own eyes the seat of their once 
greatness, became the passion of the boy’s heart. 
Never did the Bedouin of the desert long after 
Mecca with more heart-straining desire ! To 
such a pitch had this passion gained on him, 
that, unable any longer to resist an impulse that 
neither left his thoughts by day nor his dreams 
by night, he fled from his school at Bruges, and 
when only ten years old, made his way to 
Ostend, and under pretense of seeking a return 
to his family, persuaded the skipper of a trading 
vessel to give him a passage to Limerick. It 
would take us too far from our road — already a 
long one — were we to follow his wanderings 
and tell of all the difficulties that beset the little 
fellow on his lonely journey. Enough that we 
say, he did at last reach the goal of his hopes ; 
and, after a journey of eight long days, find 
himself at the ancient gate of Corrig-O’Neal. 

At first the disappointment was dreadful. 
The proud mansion, of whose glorious splendor 
his imagination had created an oriental palace, 
was an antiquated brick edifice, in front of which 
ran a long terrace, once adorned with statues, 
but of which the pedestals alone remained. A 
few hedges of yew, with here and there the 
fragments of a marble figure or a fountain, 
showed that the old French chateau taste had 
once prevailed there ; and of this a quaint 
straight avenue of lime trees, reaching directly 


from the door to the river, also bore evidence. 
The tone of sadness and desertion was on every 
thing ; many of the lower windows were walled 
up ; the great door itself was fastened and 
barricaded in such a way as to show it had been 
long disused. Not a creature was to be seen 
stirring about the place, and save that at night 
the flickering light of a candle might be descried 
from a small casement that looked upon the 
garden, the house might have been deemed un-, 
inhabited. Perhaps something in the mysteri- 
ous desolation of the scene had its influence over 
the boy’s mind 5 but as hour by hour he lingered 
in those silent woods, and lay in the deep grass 
watching the cloud shadows as they stole along, 
he grew fondly attached to the place ; now 
losing himself in some reverie of the long past, 
now following out some half-remembered narra- 
tive of his mother’s childhood, when she herself 
dwelt there. 

All his little resources of pocket-money ex- 
pended — his clothes, save such as he wore, sold 
— he could scarcely tear himself from a scene 
that filled every avenue of his heart. The time, 
however, came, when a ship, about to sail for 
the Scheldt, gave him the opportunity of return- 
ing home ; and now this was to be his last day 
at Corrig-O’Neal. 

And what a day of conflicting thought was 
it — now half resolved to approach the house, 
and ask to see his uncle, and now repelled by 
remembering all his unkindness to his father. 
Then marveling whether some change might 
not have taken place in the old man’s mind, 
and whether in his lonely desolation he might 
not wish once more to see his kindred near 
him. 

He knew not what to do, and evening found 
him still undecided, and sitting on a little rising 
spot, from which the view extended over the 
garden at the back of the house, and whence 
he had often watched the solitary light that 
marked the old man’s vigils. 

Wearied by long watching and thought, ho 
fell asleep ; and when he awoke the light was 
gone — the light which hitherto had always 
burned till daybreak ! and from the darkness it 
must now be far from that hour. While F rank 
wondered what this might mean, he was startled 
by hearing footsteps near him — at least so they 
sounded — on the gravel-walk of the garden, 
and in a few minutes after the grating sound 
of a key, and the opening of a small door which 
led out into the wood. He now perceived that 
a man was standing at the foot of the knoll, 
who seemed irresolute and undecided ; for he 
twice returned to the door, once introduced 
the key, and again withdrew it, as if with ai 
changed purpose. Suddenly he appeared to 
have made up his mind, for, stooping down, he 
began to dig with the greatest energy, stopping 
at intervals to listen, and again continuing his 
work when satisfied that he was unobserved. 

The hour — the scene itself — the evident 

• 

secrecy of the man, almost pai’alyzed the boy 
with terror ; nor was it till long after the turf 


16 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


was replaced, dry leaves and dead branches 
were strewn over the spot and the man himself 
gone, that Frank gained courage to move away. 
This he did at first cautiously and timidly, and 
then with a speed that soon carried him far away 
from the spot. The following day he was at 
sea ; and if at first the strange scene never left 
his thoughts, with time the impression faded 
away, till at length it assumed the indistinct- 
ness of a vision, or of some picture created by 
mere imagination. 

When he did return home, he never revealed 
except to Nelly, where he had been, and the object 
for which he went ; but, even to her, from some 


strange love of mystery, he told nothing of the 
last night’s experience ; this was a secret, which 
he hoarded like a miser’s treasure, and loved 
to think that he only knew of. The stirring 
events of a schoolboy’s life, at first, and subse- 
quently the changeful scenes of opening man- 
hood, gradually effaced the impression of what 
he had seen, or merely left it to all the indis- 
tinctness of a dream. 

And thus are thoughts often sealed up in the 
memory for years — unnoticed and unknown — 
till, after a long interval, they are all called 
forth, and become the very pivots on which 
turn our destiny. 




. 

,* 








CHAPTER IV. 


THE ONSLOWS. 


The little town of Baden was thrown into a 
state of considerable excitement by the unex- 
pected arrival we have chronicled in a preceding 
chapter, and the host of the Russie reduced to 
the most uncommon straits to restore the effect- 
ive of a staff, now brought down to the closest 
economy of retrenchment. Cooks, waiters, and 
housemaids, were sought after in every quarter, 
while emissaries were dispatched right and left 
to replenish the larder and provide for the 
wants of the mighty “Englander.” Nor was 
all the bustle and commotion limited to within 
the hotel, but extended throughout the village 
itself, where many a rustic pony, laid up in or- 
dinary for the winter, was again trimmed, and 
curried and shod, to be paraded before the win- 
dows with a scarlet-saddle cloth and a worst- 
ed tassel to the bridle, in all the seductive at- 
traction of a palfrey. Even flower girls made 
their appearance again with a few frost-nipped 
buds and leaves ; while a bassoon and a triangle, 
voting themselves a band, gave horrid signs of 
their means of persecution. 

Meanwhile were the fortunate individuals, for 
whose benefit these exertions were evoked, in 
the most blissful ignorance of all the interest 
they were awakening. From the first moment 
of their arrival none had even seen them. Wait- 
ed upon b^ their own servants, scarcely heard, 
not even appearing at the windows, they were 
unconsciously ministering to a mystery that now 
engaged every tongue and ear around them. 
As, however, nothing of secrecy had any share 
in their proceedings, we have no scruple in in- 
vading the presence and introducing the reader 
to the company. 

Sir Stafford Onslow was an immensely rich 
London Banker, who in his capacity of borough 
member had voted steadily with the Whigs for 
some five-and-twenty years ; supporting them 
by all the influence of his wealth and famil)’’, 
and who now came abroad, in a pet of sulk with 
his party, on being refused the peerage. By 
nature generous, kind-hearted, and affectionate, 
the constant pressure of a more ambitious wife 
had involved him in ft career to which neither 
his taste nor habits suited him. The fortune 
which he would have dispensed with dignity and 
munificence, he was eternally taught to believe 
should be the stepping-stone to something high- 
er in rank. All his influence in the City, of 
which he was justly proud, he was told was a 
mere vulgar ambition in comparison with that a 
B 


coronet would bestow on him, and in fact, hav- 
ing believed himself the leading man of a great 
section in society, he was led to look upon his 
position with discontent, and fancy that his just 
claims were disregarded and denied. Lady 
Hester Onslow, who having once been a beauty 
and the admired belle of Royalty itself, had ac- 
cepted the banker in a moment of pique, and 
never forgave him afterward the unhappy pref- 
erence. 

Belonging to a very ancient but poor family, 
few were surprised at her accepting a husband 
some thirty-odd years her senior; and it is prob- 
able that she would fully have recognized the 
prudence of her choico if, by the death of a dis- 
tant relative in India, which occurred a few 
months after her marriage, she had not acquired 
a very large fortune. This sudden accession of 
wealth coming, as she herself said, too late, em- 
bittered every hour of her after-life. 

Had she been wealthy but a few months back, 
she had married the man she loved, or whom 
she thought she loved, the heartless, handsome, 
well-mannered Lord Norwood, a penniless vis- 
count, ruined before he came of age, and with 
no other means of support than the faculties 
which knavery had sharpened into talent. 

Miss Onslow and her brother, both the chil- 
dren of a former marriage, were strikingly like' 
their father, not alone in feature, but in the- 
traits of his frank and generous character. 
They were devotedly attached to him, not the 
less, perhaps, for the circumstances of a mar- 
riage to which they were strongly opposed, and' 
whose results they now saw in many a passage 
of discord and disagreement. 

George and Sydney Onslow were both dark- 
complexioned and black-eyed, and had many 
traits of Spanish origin in appearance, their 
mother having been from that country. Lady 
Hester was a blonde, and affected to think that 
the southern tint was but an approximation to- 
the negro. Nor was she less critical on their 
manners, whose joyous freedom she pronounced 
essentially vulgar. Such, in a few words, were 
the discordant elements which Fate had bound 
up as a family, and who now, by the sudden ill- 
ness of Sir Guy, were driven to seek refuge in 
the deserted town of Baden. Nor can we omit 
another w'ho, although not tied to the rest by 
kindred, had been long a member of the circlo 
This w r as Dr. Grounsell, an old college friend 
of Sir Stafford’s, and who, having lost every 


18 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


shilling of his fortune by a speculation, had taken 
up his home at the banker's many years previous 
to his second marriage. Lady Hester’s dislike 
to him amounted to actual hatred. She detest- 
ed him for the influence he possessed over her 
husband — for the sturdiness of a character that 
resisted every blandishment — for a quaintness 
that certainly verged upon vulgarity, and, most 
of all, for the open and undisguised manner he 
always declared against every scheme for the 
attainment of a title. 

As Sir Stafford’s physician, the only one in 
whom he had confidence, the doctor was enabled 
to stand his ground against attacks which must 
have conquered him ; and by dint of long resist- 
ance and a certain obstinacy of character he had 
grown to take a pleasure in the opposition, 
which to a man of some refinement and feeling 
must have proved intolerable ; and although 
decidedly attached to Sir Stafford and his chil- 
dren, it is probable that he was still more bound 
to them by hate to “ my lady,” than by all his 
affections for themselves. 

Grounsell detested the Continent, yet he fol- 
lowed them abroad, resolved never to give up 
an inch of ground uncontested ; and although 
assailed by a thousand slights and petty insults, 
he stood stoutly up against them all, defying 
every effort of fine ladyism, French cookery, 
homoeopathy, puppyism, and the water-cure, to 
dislodge him from his position. There was very 
possibly more of dogged malice in all this, than 
amiability or attachment to his friends, but it is 
due to the doctor to say, that he was no hypo- 
crite, and would never have blinked the ac- 
knowledgment, if fairly confronted with the 
charge. 

Although if it had not been for my lady’s 
resentful notice of the ministerial neglect, the 
whole family would have been snugly domesti- 
cated in the beautiful villa beside the Thames 
at Richmond, she artfully contrived to throw 
the whole weight of every annoyance they ex- 
perienced upon every one’s shoulders rather than 
her own ; and as she certainly called to her aid 
no remarkable philosophy against the incon- 
veniences of travel, the budget of her grievances 
assumed a most imposing bulk. 

Dressed in the very perfection of a morning 
costume, her cap, her gloves, her embroidered 
slippers all in the most accurate keeping with 
that assumed air of seclusion by which fine ladies 
compliment the visitor fortunate enough to be 
admitted to their presence, Lady Hester sat at 
a window, occasionally looking from the deep 
lace that bordered her handkerchief to the pic- 
turesque scene of mountain and river that lay 
before her. A fastidious taste might have found 
something to be pleased with in either, but as- 
suredly her handsome features evinced no agree- 
able emotion, and her expression was that of 
utter ennui and listlessness. 

At another window sat Sydney Onslow draw- 
ing ; her brother standing bphind her chair, and 
.from time to time adding his counsels, but in a 
tone studiously low and whispered. “ Get that 


shadow in something deeper, Syd, and you’ll 
have more effect in the distance.” 

“ What is that I hear about effect and dis- 
tance ?” sighed out my lady. “ You surely are 
not drawing ?” 

“ Only sketching ; making a hurried note of 
that wheel, and the quaint old-fashioned house 
beside it,” said Sydney, diffidently. 

“ What a refinement of cruelty ! The detest- 
able noise of that mill kept me awake all night, 
and you mean to perpetuate the remembrance 
by a picture. Pray, be a good child, and throw 
it out of the window.” 

Sydney looked up in her brother’s face, where 
already a crimson flush of anger was gathering, 
but before she could reply he spoke for her. 
“ The drawing is for me, Lady Onslow. You’ll 
excuse me if I do not consent to the fate you 
propose for it.” 

“ Let me look at it,” said she, languidly, and 
the young girl arose and presented the drawing 
to her. “How droll!” said she lauyhinjr • “J 
suppose it is peculiar to Germany, that water 
can run up hill.” 

“ The shadow will correct that,” said Sydney, 
smiling; “and when the foreground is darker — ” 
A violent slam of the door cut short the expla- 
nation. It was Geox’ge Onslow, who too indig- 
nant at the practiced impertinence toward his 
sister, dashed out of the room in a passion. 

“ How underbred your brother will persist in 
being, my love,” said she, calmly; “that vile 
trick of slamming a door, they learn, I’m told, 
in the Guards’ Club. I’m sure I always thought 
it was confined to the melodrames one sees at 
the Porte St. Martin.” 

At this moment a servant appeared at the 
door. “ Colonel Haggerstone’s compliments, 
my lady, and begs to know how Sir Stafford is 
to-day.” 

“ Something better,” replied she, curtly; and 
as the man disappeared, she added : 

“ Whose compliments did he say ?” 

“ I did not hear the name — it sounded like 
Haggerstone.” 

“ Impossible, child ; we know of no such per- 
son. What hour is it ?” 

“ A few minutes past two.” 

“ Oh, dear ! I fancied it had been four — or 
five — or six,” sighed she, drearily. 

“ The amiable doctor has not made his report 
to-day of your papa, and he went to see him 
immediately after breakfast.” 

“ He told George that there was no amend- 
ment,” said Sydney, gravely. 

“ He told George ! Then he did not deign 
to tell me.” 

“ You were not here at the moment. It was 
as he passed through the room hurriedly.” 

“ I conclude that I was in my dressing-room. 
But it is only in keeping with Mr. Grounsell’s 
studied disrespect — a line of conduct I grieve 
to see him supported in by members of this 
family.” 

“Mr. Alfred Jekyl, my lady,” said a servant, 
“with inquiry for Sir Stafford.” 


19 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 

You appear to know best, my dear, how your rather than a medical sense ?” said Lady On- 
papa is. Pray, answer that inquiry.” slow, with a malicious smile. 

“Sir Stafford is not better,” said Sydney,! “Either, or both,” replied the doctor. “The 
curtly, to the servant. heart will always be highly susceptible of nerv- 

“ Who can all these people be, my dear?” said ous influence.” 

Lady Hester, with more animation of manner “ But papa — ” broke in Sydney, eagerly, 
than she had yet exhibited. Jekyl is a name j “Is suffering under metastasis — migratory 
one knows. There are Northamptonshire Jekyls, gout, it may be termed — changing from articu- 
and, if 1 mistake not, it was a Jekyl married lar to larsre organic structures.” 


Lady Olivia Drossmore, was it not ? Oh, what 
a fool I am to ask you , who never know any 
thing of family or connection! And yet I’m 
certain I’ve told you over and over the import- 
ance — the actual necessity of this knowledge. 
If you only bestowed upon Burke a tithe of the 
patience and time I have seen you devote to 
Lyall, you’d not commit the shocking mistake 
yov. fell into t’other day of discussing the Duch- 
ess of Dartley’s character with Lord Brandford, 
from whom she was divorced. Now, you’d 
never offend quartz and sandstone by miscalling 
them affinities. But here comes the doctor.” 

If Dr. Grounsell had been intended by nature 
to outrage all ultra-refined notions regarding 
personal appearance, he could not possibly have 
been more cunningly fashioned. Somewhat be- 
low the middle size, and squarely formed, his 
legs did not occupy more than a third of his 
height ; his head was preternaturally large, and 
seemed even larger from a crop of curly yel- 
lowish hair, whose flaring action only rescued 
it from the imputation of being a wig. His 
hands and feet were enormous, requiring a 
muscular effort to move them that made all his 
gestures grotesque and uncouth. In addition to 
these native graces, his clothes were always 
made much too large for him, from his avowed 
dislike to the over-tightening and squeezing of 
modern fashion. 

As his whole life bad been passed in the 
superintendence of a great military hospital in 
the East, wherein all his conversations with his 
brethren wore maintained in technicalities, he 
had never converted the professional jargon into 
a popular currency, but used the terms of art 
upon all occasions, regardless of the inability of 
the unmedical world to understand him. 

“Well, sir, what is your report to-day?” said 
Lady Onslow, assuming her very stateliest of 
manners. 

“ Better, and worse, madam. The arthritis 
relieved, the cardiac symptoms more imminent.” 

“ Please to bear in mind, sir, that I have not 
studied at Apothecaries’ Hall.” 

“Nor I, madam, but at Edinburgh and Aber- 
deen, in the faculties of medicine and surgery,” 
said Grounsell, drawing down his waistcoat, and 
arranging himself in what he considered an 
order of battle. 

“ Is papa better, doctor?” said Sydney, mildly. 

“ The articular affection is certainly alleviated, 
but there is mischief here,” said Grounsell, 
placing his hand over his heart; “ fibrous tissues, 
my dear Miss Onslow, fibrous tissues are ticklish 
affairs.” 

“ Is this advice to be construed in a moral 


“And, of course, you are giving him the old 
poisons that were in use fifty years ago ?” 

“ What do you mean, madam?” said Groun- 
sell, sternly. - 

“ That shocking thing that drives people mad 
— colocynth, or colchicum, or something like 
that. You know what I mean?” 

“ Happily for me, madam, I can guess it.” 

“And are you still as obstinate as ever about 
the globules?” 

“ The homoeopathic humbug ?” 

“ If you are polite enough so to designate 
what I put the most implicit trust in. But I 
warn you, sir, I mean to exert my just and 
rightful influence with Sir Stafford ; and in case 
a very great change does not appear to-morrow, 
I shall insist upon his trying the aconite.” 

“ If you do, madam, the insurance offices shall 
hear of it !” said Grounsell, with a sternness that 
made the threat most significant. 

“ I’ll send for that man from Heidelberg at 
once, Sydney,” said Lady Hester, as, pale with 
passion, she seated herself at her writing table. 

“ Take care what you do, madam,” said 
Grounsell, approaching where she sat, and 
speaking in a low and solemn voice. “ Let not 
any feeling of displeasure with me induce you 
to an act of rashness — or imprudence. My old 
friend’s state is critical ; it may at any moment 
become dangerous. I am convinced that what 
I am doing offers the most reasonable hope of 
serving him. Take care lest you weaken his 
confidence in me, when he may not be prepared 
to repose it in another.” 

“ Here, Sydney, you write German ; and it is 
possible he may not read French. This is his 
name — I got it in Paris — Graeffhell. Tell him 
to come at once — in fact, let Frar.fois take a 
carriage for him.” 

Sydney Onslow looked at her mother and 
then at the doctor. At the latter her glance 
was almost imploring, but he never noticed it, 
turning abruptly toward the window without 
uttering a word. 

“Can you consult with him, doctor?” asked 
Sydney, timidly. 

“ Of course not ; he’s a mountebank.” 

“ Write, as I bade you, Miss Onslow,” said 
Lady Hester. “ Dr. Graeffnell is one of the 
first men in Germany. Lady Heskisson sent 
for him when the earl took ill at Wiesbaden.” 

“ And the countess was a widow in four days 
after. Don’t forget the denouement of the story, 
madam.” 

Sydney dropped the pen, and her hands fell 
powerless to her side. There was something in 
the sternness of the doctor that seemed to awe 


20 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


even Lady Onslow, for she made no reply; while 
Grounsell, seeing his advantage, left the room 
at once, without further parley. 

Our readers will probably forgive us if we 
follow his example, and not remain to listen to 
the eloquent monologue in which Lady Onslow 
lamented her sad condition in life. Not only did 
she bewail her destiny, but like one of those 
classic personages the Greek Chorus presents us 


with, she proceeded to speculate upon every 
possible mischance futurity might have in store 
for her, ingeniously inventing “situations,” and 
devising predicaments that nothing less gifted 
than a self-tormenting imagination can conceive. 
Leaving her to all the pleasure such a pastime 
can give, we shall quit the house, and, although 
a cold, raw evening is closing in, wander out 
intc the street. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE PATIENT. 


Along the dark and narrow street, over which 
the coming night cast a dreary shadow, a single 
lamp was seen to shine at the door of Ludwig 
Kraus, the apothecary ; a beacon, it is but fair 
to add, lighted less with the hope of attracting 
custom, than in obedience to the requirement of 
the law, for Herr Kraus was a “state” official, 
and bound to conform to the dictates of the gov- 
ernment. His shop was a small triangular space, 
in which there was barely room for the learned 
dispenser and a single client at the same mo- 
ment, thus giving to all his interviews the secrecy 
of the confessional itself. Jars, phials, flasks, 
and drawers rose on every side, not inscribed 
with that vulgar nomenclature of modern physic, 
but bearing the enigmatical marks and hiero- 
glyphics known to Galen and Paracelsus. Arabic 
letters, dragons, strange monsters, and zodiacal 
signs, met the eye everywhere, and did not con- 
sort ill with the spare figure and high bald head 
of the proprietor, whose quaint-figured dressing- 
gown and black velvet cap gave him a kind of 
resemblance to an alchemist in his workshop. 
As Grounsell approached the glass door and 
peeped in, the scene that presented itself rather 
assisted this illusion, for straight in front of the 
little counter over which Kraus was leaning, sat 
the dwarf, Hans Roeckle, talking away with 
considerable animation, and for a time seeming 
to expatiate upon the merits of a wooden figure 
which he held carefully in his hands. The 
small, half-lighted chamber; the passive, mo- 
tionless features of the chemist; the strange, 
wild gestures of little Hans, as in his tongue of 
mysterious gutturals he poured out a flood of 
words, amazed Grounsell, and excited his curi- 
osity to the utmost. He continued to gaze in 
for a considerable time, without being able to 
guess what it might mean, and at last abandon- 
ing all conjecture he resolved to enter. Scai*cely 
had he touched the handle of the door, however, 
than the dwarf, seizing the figure, concealed it 
beneath the skirt of his fur mantle, and retired 
to a corner of the shop. Dr. Grounsell’s errand 
was to obtain certain medicines for his patient, 


which, from his ignorance of German, he had 
taken the precaution to write down in Latin. 
He passed the paper in silence over the counter, 
and waited patiently as the chemist spelt out the 
words. Having read it through he handed back 
the paper with a few dry words, which being in 
his native tongue were totally incomprehensible. 

“ You must have these things, surely.” ex- 
claimed Grounsell ; “ they are the commonest 
of all medicines;” and then remembering him- 
self he made signs in the direction of the drawers 
and phials to express his meaning. Again the 
chemist uttered some dozen words. 

The doctor produced his purse, where certain 
gold pieces glittered, as though to intend that 
he was willing to pay handsomely for his igno- 
rance ; but the other pushed it away, and shook 
his head in resolute refusal. 

“ This is too bad,” muttered Grounsell, an- 
grily. “I’ll be sworn he has the things, and 
will not give them.” The chemist motioned 
Hans to approach, and whispered a few woi'ds 
in his hearing, on which the dwarf, removing 
his cap in courteous salutation, addressed G:\ctm- 
sell : “ High-born and much-learned saar. De 
laws make no oder than doctoren have recht to 
write physics.” 

“ What ?” cried Grounsell not understanding 
the meaning of the speech. Hans repeated it 
more slowly. 

“ But I am a doctor, my worthy friend, a 
physician of long standing.” 

“ Dass ist possible — who knows ?” 

“I know, and I say it,” rejoined the other, 
tersely. 

“ Ja ! ja!” responded Hans, as though to say 
the theme were not worth being warm about 
one way or t other. 

“ Come, my dear sir,” said Grounsell, coax- 
ingly ; “pray be good enough to explain that I 
want these medicines for a sick friend, who is 
now at the hotel here, dangerously ill of gout.” 

“Podagra — gout!” exclaimed Hans, with 
sudden animation, “and dese are de cure for 
gout. ,J 


21 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“They will, I hope, be of service against it.” 

You shall have dem — deni — on one condi- 
tion. 1 hat ist, you will visit anoder sick man 
mit gout — an Eglessman, too — sehr ill — very 
sick — and no rich — -you understan.” 

“ Yes, yes ; I understand perfectly. I’ll see 
him with pleasure. Tell this worthy man to 
make up these for me, and I’ll go along with 
you now.” 

“ Gut ! ver good,” said Hans, as in a few 
words of German he explained to the apothecary 
that he might venture to transgress the law in 
the present case when the season was over, and 
no one to be the wiser.” 

As Hans issued forth to show the way, he 
never ceased to insist upon the fact that the 
present was not a case for a fee, and that the 
doctor should well understand the condition on 
which his visit was to be paid ; and still inveigh- 
ing on this theme, he arrived at the house where 
the Daltons dwelt. “Remember, too,” said 
Hans, “ that though they are poor, they are of 
guten staum — how say you ?” Noble Grounsell 
listened with due attention to all Hanserl’s 
cautions, following, not without difficulty, his 
strange and guttural utterances. 

“ I will go before. Stay here,” said Hans, 
as they gained the landing-place ; and so saying 
he pushed open the door and disappeared. 

As Grounsell stood alone and in the dark, he 
wondered within himself what strange chances 
should have brought a countryman into this 
companionship, for there was something so 
grotesque in Hans’s appearance and manner, 
that it routed all notion of his being admitted 
to any footing of friendly equality. 

The door at length opened, and the doctor 
followed Hans into a dimly-lighted room, where 
Dalton lay, half dressed, upon his bed. Before 
Grounsell had well passed the entrance, the sick 
man said, “ I am afraid, sir, that my little friend 
here has taken a bit of liberty with both of us, 
since I believe you wanted a patient just as little 
as I did a doctor.” 

The anxious, lustrous eye, the flushed cheek, 
and tremulous lip of the speaker, gave, at the 
same time, a striking contradiction to his words. 
Grounsell’s practiced glance read these signs 
rapidly, and drawing near the bed, he seated 
himself beside it, saying, “ It is quite clear, sir, 
that you are not well, and although, if we were 
both of us in our own country, this visit of mine 
would, as you observe, be a considerable liberty, 
but seeing that we are in a foreign land, I hope 
you will not deem my intrusion of this nature, 
but suffer me, if I can, to be of some service to 
you.” 

Less the words themselves than a certain 
purpose-like kindliness in the speaker’s manner, 
induced Dalton to accept the offer, and reply to 
the questions which the other proposed to him. 
“ No, no, doctor,” said he, after a few moments; 
“ there is no great mischief brewing, after all. 
The truth is, I was fretted — harassed a little. 
It was about a boy of mine — I have only one — 
and he’s gone away to be a soldier with the 


Austrians. You know, of course — as who 
doesn’t? — how hard it is to do any thing for a 
young man nowadays. If family or high con- 
nection could do it, we’d be as w r ell off as our 
neighbors. We belong to the Daltons of Garrig- 
more, that you know are full blood with the 
O’Neals of Cappagh. But what’s the use of 
blood now ?—devil a good it does a man. It 
would be better to have your father a cotton- 
spinner or an iron-master than the descendant 
of Shane Mohr na Mauma.” 

“ I believe you are right,” observed the doctor, 
drily. 

“ I know I am ; I feel it myself, and I’m 
almost ashamed to tell it. Here am I, Peter 
Dalton, the last of them now ; and may I never 
leave this bed, if I could make a barony consta- 
ble in the county where the king’s writ couldn’t 
run once without our leave.” 

“ But Ireland herself has changed more than 
your own fortunes,” remarked Grounsell. 

“ That’s true, that’s true,” sighed the sick 
man. “I don’t remember the best days of it, 
but I’ve heard of them often and often from my 
father. The fine old times, when Mount Dalton 
was filled with company from the ground to the 
slates, and two lords in the granary ; a pipe of 
port wine in the hall, with a silver cup beside 
it ; the Modereen hounds, huntsmen and all, 
living at rack and manger, as many as fifty 
sitting down in the parlor, and I won’t say how 
many in the servants’ hall ; the finest hunters in 
the west country in the stables — there was life 
for you ! Show me the equal of that in the wide 
world.” 

“ And what is the present condition of the 
scene of these festivities?” said Grounsell, with 
a calm, but searching look. 

“The present condition?” echoed Dalton, 
starting up to a sitting posture, and grasping 
the curtain with a convulsive grip ; “ I can’t 
tell you what it is to-day, this ninth of November, 
but I’ll tell what it was when I left it, eighteen 
years ago. The house was a'ruin ; the lawn a 
common ; the timber cut down ; the garden a 
waste ; the tenants beggared ; the landlord an 
exile. That’s a pleasant catalogue, isn’t it ?” 

“ But there must come a remedy for all this,” 
remarked Grounsell, whose ideas were following 
out a very different channel. 

“ Do you mean by a poor-law ? Is it by 
taxing the half ruined to feed the lazy ? or by 
rooting out all that once was a gentry, to fill 
their places by greedy speculators from Man- 
chester and Leeds ? Is that your remedy ? 
It’s wishing it well I am ! No ; if you want to 
do good to the country, leave Ireland to be 
Ireland, and don’t try to make Norfolk of her. 
Let her have her own parliament, that knows 
the people and their wants. Teach her to have 
a pride in her own nationality, and not to be 
always looking at herself in shame beside her 
rich sister. Give her a word of kindness now 
and then, as you do the Scotch ; but, above all, 
leave us to ourselves. We understand one 
another; you never did, nor never will. We 


22 


THE DALTONS ; OR, T 

3uarrefa4. and made friends again, and all went 
rigm with rfs. You came over with your 
Chancery Courts, and your police, and whenever 
we differed you never stopped till we were 
beggared or hanged.” 

“You take a very original view of our efforts 
at civilization, I confess,” said Grounsell, smiling. 

“ Civilization ! Civilization ! I hate the very 
sound of the word. It brings to my mind noth- 
ing but county jails, bridewells, turnpikes, and 
ministers’ money. If it wasn’t for civilization, 
would there be a receiver over my estate of Mount 
Dalton ? would the poor tenants be racked for 
the rent, that I always gave time for? would 
there be a big poor-house, with its ugly front 
staring to the highway, as they tell me there 
is, and a police barrack to keep it company 
opposite ? I tell you again, sir, that your med- 
dling has done nothing but mischief. Our little 
quarrels you converted into serious animosities ; 
our estrangements into the feuds of two opposing 
races ; our very poverty, that we had grown 
accustomed to, you taught us to regard as a 
national disgrace, without ever instructing us 
how to relieve it : and there we are now on 
your hands, neither English in industry, nor 
Irish in submission — neither willing to work, nor 
content to be hungry!” 

The doctor saw by the agitated look and tone 
of the sick man that the subject was one of too 
much excitement for him, and hastened to change 
the topic by jocularly expressing a hope that he 
might prove more successful with him than En- 
gland had been with his countrymen. 

“I doubt it, sir,” said Dalton, gravely; “not 
thanking you the less for your kindness. I be- 
lieve, like my poor country, that I’m past doc- 
toring.” He paused for a few seconds, and then 
added : “ It’s all fretting. It’s thinking about 
the girls ; Frank there is no fear of. That’s 
what ails me.” 

Grounsell saw that to prolong his visit would 
be but to encourage a tone of depression that 
must prove injurious ; so promising to return to 
see him in the morning, he shook Dalton’s hand 
cordially, and followed Hans into the adjoining 
room, where writing materials were prepared 
for him. 

The two girls were standing at the fire as 
he entered ; and simple as was the dress, homely 
even to poverty, every trait of their costume, 
their looks, bespoke them of gentle blood. Their 
anxious glances as he came forward, showed 
their eagerness to hear his tidings ; but they did 
not speak a word. 

“Do not be uneasy, young ladies,” said he, 
hastening to relieve their fears. “ Your father’s 
illness has nothing serious about it. A few 
days will, I trust, see him perfectly restored to 
health. Meanwhile, you are his best phy- 
sicians, who can minister to his spirits and cheer 
him up.” 

“ Since my brother left us, sir, he appeared 
to sink hour by hour ; he can not get over the 
shock,” said Ellen. 

“I never knew him to give way before,” 


HREE ROADS IN LIFE. 

interposed Kate. “ He used 1o say, when any 
thing grieved him, he’d pay some one to fret for 
him.” 

“ With better health you’ll see his old courage 
return,” said the doctor, as he hastily wrote a 
few lines of prescription, and then laying his 
head in his hand, seemed for some minutes lost 
in thought. There were little comforts, mat- 
ters of trifling luxury, he wished to order, and 
yet he hesitated, for he did not know how far 
they were compatible with their means ; nor 
could he venture upon the hazard of offending 
by questioning them. As, in his uncertainty, 
he raised his eyes, they fell upon the wooden 
figure which the dwarf had exhibited in the 

3 

apothecary’s shop, and which now stood upon a 
table near. It was a child sleeping at the foot 
of a cross, around which its arms were en- 
twined. The emaciated limbs and wasted cheek 
portrayed fasting and exhaustion, while in the at- 
titude itself, sleep seemed verging upon death. 

“What is that?” asked he, as he pointed 
with his pen to the object. 

“ A poor child was found thus, frozen to 
death upon the Arleberg,” said Kate ; “and my 
sister carved that figure for a description of the 
event.” 

“ Your sister! This was done by you ?” said 
Groundsell, slowly, as he turned his gaze from 
the work to the artist. 

“Yes,” cried Hans, whose face beamed with 
delight; “is it not ‘lieblich;’ is it not vonder- 
ful ? Dass, I say, alway ; none have geschmacht 
how you can love to admire !” 

Stooping down to examine it better, Ground- 
sell was struck by the expression of the face, 
wherein a smile of trustfulness and hope seemed 
warring with the rigid lines of coming death : 

o o 3 7 

so that the impression conveyed was more of a 
victory over suffering, than of a terrible fate. 

“ She is self-taught, sir ; none even so much 
as assisted her by advice,” said Kate, proudly. 

“ That will be perhaps but too apparent from 
my efforts,” said Ellen, smiling faintly. 

“I’m no artist, young lady,” said Groundsell, 
bluntly, “ but I am well versed in every variety 
of the human expression in suffering ; and of 
mere truth to nature, I can speak confidently. 
This is a fine work ! — nay, do not blush. I am 
not a flatterer. May I take it with me, and 
show it to others more conversant with art than 
I am?” 

“Upon one condition you may,” said the girl, 
in a low, deep voice. 

“ Be it so; on any condition you wish.” 

“We are agreed, then?” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“The figure is yours — nay, sir. Your prom- 
ise !” 

Groundsell stammered and blushed, and look- 
ed confused ; indeed no man was less able to 
extricate himself from any position of embarrass- 
ment, and here the difficulties pressed on every 
side, for while he scrupled to accept what he 
deemed a gift of real value, he felt that they too 
had a right to free themselves from the oblio-a- 


23 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


tion that his presence as a doctor imposed. At 
last he saw nothing better than to yield ; and in 
all the confusion of a bashfully awkward man, 
he mumbled out his acknowledgments, and, 
catching up the figure, departed. 


Hans alone seemed dissatisfied at the result, 
for as he cast his wistful looks after the wooden 
image, his eyes swam with his tears, and he 
muttered as he went some words of deep de- 
sponding cadence. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A FIRST VISIT. 


The dreary weather of November showed no 
signs of “taking up/’ Lowering days of fog 
and gloom alternated with cold winds and sleet, 
so that all out-door occupation was utterly de- 
nied to that imprisoned party, who were left 
with so few resources to pass the time within. 
It is true they did not make the best of the bad. 
Lady Hester grew hourly more irritable and 
peevish. Sydney Onslow seldom left her room. 
George took to the hills every morning, and 
never returned before a late dinner ; while the 
doctor, when not with Sir Stafford, spent all his 
time at the Dalton’s, with whom he had already 
established a close intimacy. 

Lady Hester had exhausted every possible 
means she could imagine to while away the 
hours ; she had spent whole days in letter-writing 
— folios of tirades, to every one she could think 
of. She had all the carriages inspected, and the 
imperials searched, for books she well knew had 
been left behind. She had sent for the landlord’s 
daughter to give her lessons in German, which 
she thought of learning during the week. She 
had given a morning to the Italian boy with his 
white mice ; and pored for hours long over the 
“ Livre des Voyageurs,” reading the names of 
friends who with better fortune had taken their 
departure for Italy. But at last there came an 
end even to these frail resources, and she was left 
utterly without an occupation to engage, or even 
a thought to employ her. The five minutes of 
morning altercation with Groundsell over, the 
dreary lime was unbroken by a single event, or 
uncheckered by a single hope. Sir Stafford 
was indeed recovering, but so slowly that weeks 
might be required ere he could proceed on his 
journey. How were they to be passed, was the 
fearful question to which she could find no an- 
swer. She looked with actual envy at the party 
of boors who played at dominoes in the beer- 
house opposite, and followed with longing eyes 
the little mail-cart as it left the village. If she 
could read German, there were scores of books 
at her service. If she could but take a charita- 
ble turn, there was poverty enough to give her 
occupation from morn till night. She never 
knew what it was to think seriously ; for medi- 
tation is the manufacture that can not work 
without its raw material, and with this her mind 
was not stored. 

It was in this pitiable frame of mind she was 


walking up and down the drawing-room, one 
morning, just as the doctor had taken his de- 
parture, and with him the last little scene that 
was to relieve the day, when the servant entered 
with the card of Colonel Haggerstone, and the 
daily repeated inquiry for Sir Stafford’s health. 

Had the gallant colonel presented himself at 
Willow Crescent, or the Villa, it is more than 
likely that the well-instructed porter had not 
vised his passport, but at once consigned a name 
of such unimposing consonants to gentle obscur- 
ity, while such an entry in the visiting-book had 
been coolly set down as a mistake. Not so 
now, however. Lady Hester took up the card, 
and, instead of the habitual curt rejoinder — “ Sir 
Stafford is better,” said, “ You may tell Colonel 
Haggerstone that Lady Hester will receive 
him.” 

The gallant colonel, who was negligently 
slapping his boots with his riding-whip below 
stairs, was not a little amazed at the message. 
There had been a time when he would have 
interpreted the favor most flatteringly. He 
would have whispered to himself, “ She has seen 
me passing the window — she was struck with 
me as I rode by.” Time had, however, toned 
down these bright illusions, and he read the 
permission with a nearer approach to truth, as 
a fine lady caprice in a moment of ennui. “ I 
thought as much,” muttered he to himself, as 
he slowly ascended the stairs ; “ the blockade 
was too strictly enforced not to tell at last. No 
newspapers, no books, ha ! ha ! Couldn’t help 
surrendering !” 

The colonel had by this time given his whis- 
kers and mustaches the last curl, thrown back 
his head into a position of calm dignity, as the 
servant, throwing wide the folding doers, an- 
nounced hrm. Advancing two paces and bow- 
ing low, Colonel Haggerstone said, “ Your 
ladyship will pardon the liberty, the very great 
liberty, I have taken in my respectful inquiries 
for some days past, but although probably not 
remembered by Sir Stafford, I once did enjoy 
the honor of his acquaintance — we met at Lord 
Iverrison's in Scotland.” 

Lady Onslow cut short this very uninteresting 
explanation by a bland but somewhat super- 
cilious smile, that seemed to say, “ What possi- 
ble matter can it be?” while at the same time, 
she motioned him to be seated. 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


^4 

“ May I hope that Sir Stafford continues to 
improve,” said he, bowing again. 

“ He’s better to-day,” said Lady Onslow, 
languidly. “ Perhaps as well as any one can 
be in this wretched place. You heard, I sup- 
pose, of the series of misfortunes that befell us, 
and compelled us to return here.” 

The colonel looked mildly compassionate and 
inquisitive. He anticipated the possible pleasure 
her ladyship might feel in a personal narrative, 
and he was an accomplished listener. This 
time, however, he was wrong. Lady Onslow 
either did not think the occasion or the audience 
worth the trouble of the exertion, and she 
merely said, “We had a break-down somewhere 
with an odious name. Sir Stafford would travel 
by that road through the Holen Thai, where some 
body made his famous march. Who was it ?” 

“Massena, I think,” said the colonel at a 
haphazard, thinking that at least the name was 
ben novato , just as Sunday-school children father 
every thing remarkable on “John the Baptist.” 

“Oh, dear, sir, it was Moreau. We stopped 
to breakfast at the little inn where he held his 
head quarters, and in the garden of which he 
amused himself in pistol-shooting — strange, was 
it not? Are you a good shot, colonel?” 

“ Good among bad ones,” said the colonel, 
modestly. 

“ Then we must have a match. I am so fond 
of it. You have pistols, of course?” 

“ I am fortunate enough to have a case of 
Schlessinger’s best, and at your ladyship’s dis- 
posal.” 

“Well, that is agreed on. You’ll be kind 
enough to select a suitable spot in the garden, 
and if to-morrow be fine — by the way, what is 
to-morrow ; not Sunday, I hope.” 

The colonel relieved her anxieties by the 
assurance that the next day would be Monday, 
consequently that the present one was Sunday. 

“ How strange ! One does make sad con- 
fusion in these things abroad,” said she, sighing. 
“ I think we are better in England in that re- 
spect, don’t you ?” 

The question was not a very clear one. but the 
colonel never hesitated to give in his adhesion. 

“ Sir Stafford always took that view in the 
House, and consequently differed from his party, 
as well as about Ireland. Poor dear Ireland ! 
what is to be done for her?” 

This was a rather more embarrassing demand 
than the previous one, and the colonel hemmed 
and coughed, and prepared for a speech of subtle 
■generalities ; but the dexterity was all unneces- 
sary, for her ladyship had already forgotten the 
theme, and every thing about it, as she went on. 
“ How I pity those dear Wreckingtons, who are 
condemned to live there. The earl, you know, 
had promised solemnly that he would go any 
lengths for the party when he got his blue 
ribbon ; and so they took him at his word, and 
actually named him to the viceroyalty. It was 
a very cruel thing, but I hear nothing could be 
better than his conduct on hearing it : and dear 
Lady Wreckington insisted upon accompanying 


him. It was exactly like the story of — what’s 
that man’s name, who assisted in the murder of 
the Emperor Paul — Geroboffskoy, or something 
like that, and whose wife followed him to tho 
mines. 

The colonel avowed that the case; were 
precisely alike, and now the conversation- -if the 
word can be degraded to mean that talk desig- 
nated chat — ran on upon London people and 
events — their marriages, their dinners, their 
separations, coalitions, divorces, and depar. ares; 
on all which themes Haggerstone affected a 
considerable degree of knowledge, although, to 
any one less occupied with themselves thar her 
ladyship, it would have been at once appa -ent 
that all his information was derived from the 
newspapers. It was at the close of a lame sta- 
tion on the utter stupidity of every thing and 
evei’y where, that he adroitly asked where she 
meant to pass the winter. 

“ I wish I knew,” said she, languidly. “ The 
Dollingtons say Naples ; the Upsleys tell us 
Rome ; and, for my part, I pronounce for 
neither. Lady Dollington is my aversion, and 
the three Upsley girls, with their pert noses 
and red hair, are insufferable.” 

“ What does your ladyship think of Florence ?” 
asked the colonel, soothingly. 

“ Pretty much what I might of one of the 
Tonga islands. 1 know nothing of the place, the 
people, or the climate. Pray tell me about it.” 

“There is very little to say,” said Hagger- 
stone, shrugging his shoulders ; “ not but the 
place might be very agreeable, if there were 
some one of really fashionable standing to take 
the lead and give a tone to the society ; some 
one who would unite indisputable rank and 
wealth with personal graces, and thus, as it 
were, by prescriptive right, assume the first 
place. Then, I say, Florence would be second 
to no city of Italy. Would that your ladyship 
would condescend to accept the vacant throne.” 

“I!” said she, affecting astonishment; and 
then laughingly added, “ Oh, no ! I detest mock 
sovereignty. I actually shudder at the idea of 
the Lady Patroness part ; besides, whom should 
one have to reign over ? Not the Browns, and 
Smiths, and Perkinses ; not the full-pensioned 
East Indians, the half-pay colonels, and the no- 
pay Irish gentilities, that form the staple of 
small city society. You surely would not rec- 
ommend me to such a sad pre-eminence.” 

The colonel smiled flatteringly at her lady- 
ship’s smartness, and hastened to assure her 
that such heresy was far from his thoughts; 
and then with a practiced readiness, ran over a 
list ol loreign celebrities — French, Russian, and 
German — whose names, at least, clinked like 
the true metal. 

This looked promisingly ; it was very like 
cutting all English society, and had the appear- 
ance of something very exclusive, very imperti- 
nent, and very ungenerous ; and now, she lent a 
willing ear as Haggerstone revealed a plan of 
operations for a whole winter campaign. Ac- 
cording to his account, it was a perfect “ terra 


25 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


incognita,” where the territorial limits and laws 
might be laid down at will : it was a state which 
called for a great dictatorship, and the sway of 
unlimited authority. 

Now, Lady Hester had never, at least since 
her marriage, and very rarely even before it, 
been more than on the periphery of fashionable 
society. When she did obtain a footing within 
the charmed circle, it was by no prescriptive 
right, but rather on some ground of patronage, 
or some accidental political crisis, which made 
Sir Stafford’s influence a matter of moment. 
There was, therefore, a flattery in the thought 
of thus becoming a leader in society; and she 
shrewdly remembered, that though there might 
be little real power, there would be all the tyr- 
anny of a larger sovereignty. 

It is true she suffered no symptom of this sat- 
isfaction to escape her; on the contrary, she 
compassionated the “poor, dear things” that 
thought themselves “ the world,” in such a 
place, and smiled with angelic pity at their 
sweet simplicity ; but Haggerstone saw through 
all these disguises, and read her real sentiments, 
as a practiced toad-eater never fails to do, where 
only affectation is the pretense. Adroitly avoid- 
ing to press the question, he adverted to Baden 
and its dreary weather ; offered his books ; his 
newspapers ; his horses ; his phaeton ; and every 
thing that was his, even his companionship as a 
guide to the best riding or walking roads, and, 
like a clever actor, made his exit at the very 
moment when his presence became most de- 
sirable. 

Lady Hester looked out of the window, and 
saw, in the street beneath, the saddle-horses of 
the colonel, which were led up and down, by a 
groom in the most accurate of costumes. The 
nags themselves, too, were handsome and in top 
condition. It was a little gleam of civilization, 
in the midst of universal ban'enness, that brought 
up memories, some of which, at least, were not 
devoid of pain, so far as the expression of her 
features might be trusted. “ I wonder who he 
can be,” said she, musing. “ It’s a shocking 
name ! Haggerstone. Perhaps Sir Stafford 
may remember him. It’s very sad to think that 
one should be reduced to such people,” so, with 
a slight sigh, she sat down to indulge in a mood 
of deep and sincere commiseration for herself 
and her sorrows. 

From these reveries she was aroused by the 
arrival of a package of books and papers from 
the colonel. They included some of the latest 
things of the day, both French and English, and 
were exactly the kind of reading she cared for, 
that half-gossipry that revolves around a certain 
set, and busies itself about the people and inci- 
dents of one very small world. There were 
books of travel by noble authors, and novels by 
titled authoresses : the one as tamely well-bred 
and tiresome as the others were warm and im- 
passioned — no bad corroborative evidence, by 
the way, of the French maxim, that the “safety 
of the Lady Georginas has an immense relation 
to the coldness of the Lord Georges.” There 


were books of beauty, wherein loveliness was 
most aristocratic ; and annuals wherein nobility 
condescended to write twaddle. There were 
analyses of new operas, wherein the list of the 
spectators was the only matter of interest, and 
better than these were the last fashions of 
“ Longchamps,” the newest bulletins of that 
great campaign which began in Adam’s garden, 
and will endure to the “very crack of doom.” 

Lady Hester’s spirits rallied at once, from 
these well-timed stimulants ; and when the party 
gathered together, before dinner, George and 
his sister were amazed at the happy change 
in her manner. 

“ I have had a visitor,” said she, after a short 
mystification ; “ a certain colonel, who assumes 
to be known to your father, but I fancy will 
scarcely be remembered by him — he calls him- 
self Haggerstone.” 

“ Haggerstone !” said George, repeating the 
name twice or thrice. “ Is not that the name 
of the man who was always with Arlington, 
and of whom all the stories are told ?” 

“ As I never heard of Aldington’s compan- 
ion, nor the stories in question, I can’t say. 
Pray enlighten us,” said Lady Hester, tartly. 

“ Haggerstone sounds so like the name,” re- 
peated George to himself. 

“ So like what name ? Do be good enough 
to explain.” 

“ I am unwilling to tell a story which, if not 
justly attributable to the man, will certainly 
attach unpleasantly to his name hereafter.” 

“ And in your excessive caution for yourself, 
you are pleased to forget me, Mr. Onslow. 
Pray remember that if I admit him to acquaint • 
ance — ” 

“But surely you don’t mean to do so?” 

“ And why not ?” 

“ In the first place you know nothing about 
him.” 

“ Which is your fault.” 

“ Be it so. I have at least told you enough 
to inspire reserve and caution.” 

“ Quite enough to suggest curiosity, and give 
a degree of interest to a very commonplace 
character.” 

“Is he young, may I ask ?” said George, 
with a half smile. 

“ No ; far from it.” 

“ Good looking ?” 

“ Just as little.” 

“Very agreeable and well-mannered?” 

“ Rather prosy, and too military in tone for 
my taste.” 

“ Does he come under the recommendatory 
{ firman’ of any dear friend or acquaintance ?” 

“ Nothing of the kind. There is his pass- 
port,” said she, pointing to his visiting ticket. 

“ Your ladyship used to be more difficult of 
access,” said George, dryly. 

“Very true ; and so I may possibly become 
again. To make selections from the world of 
one’s acquaintance is a very necessary duty ; 
but, as my father used to say, no one thinks of 
using a sieve for chaff.” 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ This gentleman is then fortunate in his 
obscurity.” 

“Here comes Miss Onslow,” said Lady 
Hester, “ who will probably be more grateful 
to me, when she learns that our solitude is to 
be enlivened by the gallant colonel.” 

Sydney scanned over the books and journals on 
the table, and then quietly remarked, “ If a man 
is to be judged of by his associates, these do not 
augur vex*y favorably for the gentleman’s taste.” 


“ I see that you are both bent on making 
him a favorite of mine,” said Lady Hester, pet 
tishly ; “and if Doctor Grounsell will only dis- 
cover some atrocious circumstance in his his- 
tory or character, I shall be prepared to call 
him ‘charming.’ ” 

The announcement of dinner fortunately broke 
up a discussion that already promised unfavora- 
bly; nor were any of the party sorry at the 
interruption. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A LESSON IN TISTOL SHOOTING. 


There are two great currents which divide 
public opinion in the whole world, and all man- 
kind may be classed into one or other of these 
wide categories : “ The people who praise, and 
the people who abuse every thing.” In cer- 
tain sets, all is as it ought to be, in this life. 
Every body is good, dear, and amiable. All 
the men are gifted and agreeable ; all the 
women fascinating and pretty. An indiscrim- 
inate shower of laudation falls upon every thing 
of every body, and the only surprise the hearer 
feels is how a world, so chuck full of excellence, 
can possibly consist with what one reads occa- 
sionally in the Times and the Chronicle. 

The second category is the Roland to this 
Oliver, and embraces those who have a good 
word for nobody, and in whose estimation the 
globe is one great penal settlement — the over- 
seers being neither more nor less than the best 
conducted among the convicts. The chief busi- 
ness of these people in life is to chronicle family 
disgraces and misfortunes, to store their mem- 
ories with defalcations, frauds, suicides, dis- 
reputable transactions at play, unfair duels, 
seductions, and the like, and to be always pre- 
pared, on the first mention of a name, to con- 
nect its owner, or his grandmother with some 
memorable blot, or some unfortunate event of 
years before. If the everlasting laudations of 
the one set make life too sweet to be wholesome, 
the eternal disparagement of the other renders 
it too bitter to be enjoyable; nor would it be 
easy to say whether society suffers more from 
the exercise of this mock charity, on the one 
side, or the practice of universal malevolence, 
on the other. 

Perhaps our readers will feel grateful when 
we assure them that we are not intent upon 
pushing our investigation further. The con- 
sideration was forced upon us by thinking of 
Colonel Haggerstone, who was a distinguished 
member of class No. 2. His mind was a police 
sheet, or rather like a page of that celebrated 
“Livre Noir,” wherein all the unexpiated of- 
fenses of a nation are registered. He knew the 


family disasters of all Europe, and not a name 
could be mentioned in society to which he could 
not tag either a seduction, a fraud, a swindle, 
or a poltroonery ; and when such revelations 
are given prosaically, with all the circumstances 
of date, time, and place, unrelieved by the 
slightest spice of wit or imagination, but simply 
narrated as “Memoires pour servir a l’Histoire” 
of an individual, the world is very apt to ac- 
cept them as evidences of knowledge of life, 
rather than what they really are — proofs of a 
malignant disposition. In this way Hagger- 
stone seemed to many, the mere “old soldier” 
and nothing more ; whereas, if nature had given 
him either fancy or epigrammatic smartness, he 
would have been set down for the incarnation 
of slander. 

It may seem strange that Lady Hester, who 
had lived a good deal in the world, should never 
have met a character of this type, but so it was ; 
she belonged to a certain “fast set” in society, 
who seem to ask for a kind of indemnity for all 
they do, by never, on any occasion, stopping to 
criticise their neighbors. This semblance of 
good-nature is a better defensive armor than the 
uninitiated know of, enlisting all loose sympathies 
with its possessor, and even gaining for its ad- 
vocates that great floating majority who speak 
much and think little. 

In London, Haggerstone would have at once 
appeared the very “ worst ton,” and she would 
have avoided the acquaintance of a man so un- 
happily gifted ; but here, at Baden, with nothing 
to do, none to speak to, he became actually a 
prize, and she listened to him for hours with 
pleasure as he recounted all the misdeeds of 
those “ dear, dear friends” who had made up 
her own “world.” There was at heart, too, 
the soothing flattery that whispered, “ He can 
say nothing of me; the worst he can hint is, 
that I married a man old enough to be my 
father, and if I did, I am heartily sorry for the 
mistake.” 

He was shrewd enough soon to detect the 
family differences that prevailed, and to take ad- 


27 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


vantage of them, not by any imprudent or ill- 
advised allusion to what would have enlisted her 
ladyship’s pride in opposition, but, by suggest- 
ing occupations and amusements, that he saw 
would be distasteful to the others, and thus alien- 
ate her more and more from their companion- 
ship. In fact his great object was to make Lady 
Hester a disciple of that new school which owns 
George Sand for its patron, and calls itself 
“Lionne.” It would be foreign to our purpose 
here were we to stop and seek to what social 
causes this new sect owes existence. In a 
great measure it may be traced to the prevailing 
taste of men for club life — to that lounging ease 
which exacts no tribute of respect or even atten- 
tion, but suffers men to indulge their caprices 
to any extent of selfishness ; thus unfitting them 
for ladies’ society, or only such society, as that 
of ladies condescending enough to unsex them- 
selves, and to talk upon themes and discuss 
subjects that usually are reserved for other 
audiences. 

Certain clever men liked this liberty — these 
receptions were a kind of free port, where all 
could be admitted duty free. Nothing was for- 
bidden in this wide tariff, and so, conversation, 
emancipated from the restriction of better socie- 
ty, permitted a thousand occasions of display, 
that gradually attracted people to these re-unions, 
and made all other society appear cold, formal, 
and hypocritical by contrast. This new inven- 
tion had not reached England when Lady Hester 
quitted it, but she listened to a description of its 
merits with considerable interest. There were 
many points, too, in which it chimed in with 
her notions. It had novelty, liberty, and unbound- 
ed caprice among its recommendations ; and 
lastly, it was certain to outrage the “ Onslows.” 
It was a “part” which admitted of any amount 
of interpolations. Under its sanction she would 
be free to say any thing, know any one, and go 
any where. Blessed immunity that permitted 
all and denied nothing ! 

With all the vulgar requirements of “ Lionism” 
she was already sufficiently conversant. She 
could ride, drive, shoot, and fence ; was a very 
tolerable billiard player, and could row a little. 
But with the higher walks of the craft she had 
made no acquaintance ; she had not learned to 
swim, had never smoked, and was in dark ignor- 
ance of that form of language which, half mystical 
and all mischievous, is in vogue with the members 
of this sect. That she could acquire all these 
things rapidly and easily the colonel assured 
her, and, by way of “matriculating,” reminded 
her of her challenge respecting the pistol shoot- 
ing, for which he had made every preparation in 
the garden of the hotel. 

True to his word, he had selected a very 
pretty alley, at the end of which rose a wall 
sufficiently high to guard against accidents from 
stray shots. On a table were displayed, in all 
the dandyism such objects are capable of, a 
handsome case of pistols, with all the varied 
appliances of kid leather for wadding, bullet- 
moulds, rammers, hammers, screws, and rests, 


even to a Russia-leather bound note-book, to re- 
cord the successes, nothing had been forgotten ; 
and Lady Hester surveyed with pleasure prep- 
arations which at least implied an anxious at- 
tention to her wishes. 

“Only fancy the barbarism of the land we 
live in,” said he; “I have sent emissaries on 
every side to seek for some of those plaster fig- 
ures so common in every city of Europe, but in 
vain. Instead of your Ladyship cutting off 
Joan of Arc’s head, or sending your bullet 
through some redoubtable enemy of England, 
you must waste your prowess and skill upon an 
ignoble jar of porcelain, or a vase of Bohemian 
glass ; unless, indeed, my last messenger shall 
have proved more fortunate, and I believe such 
is the case.” As he spoke his servant came up 
with a small parcel carefully enveloped in 
paper. 

“I have got this figure, sir,” said he, “ with 
the greatest difficulty, and only, indeed, by pre- 
tending we wanted it as an ornamental statue. 
The little fellow of the toy-shop parted with it 
in teai's, as if it had been his brother.” 

“It is very beautiful !” said Lady Hester, as 
she surveyed a small wooden statue of Goethe’s 
“ Marguerite,” in the attitude of plucking the 
petals of a flower to decide upon her lover’s 


“ A mere toy !” said Haggerstone. “ These 
things are carved by every child in the Black 
Forest. Does your ladyship think you could 
hit the feather of her cap without hurting the 

head ?” 

“I couldn’t think of such profanation,” re- 
plied she ; “ there is really something very pretty 
in the attitude and expression. Pray let us re- 
serve her for some less terrible destiny.” 

But the colonel persisted in assuring her that 
these were the commonest nick-nacks that 
adorned every peasant’s cabin — that every boor 
with a rusty knife carved similar figures, and 
in the midst of his explanations he placed the 
statue upon a little stone pillar about twenty 
paces off. 

Lady Hester’s objection had been little more 
than a caprice ; indeed, had she been convinced 
that the figure was a valuable work of art, she 
would have felt rather flattered than otherwise 
at the costliness of the entertainment provided 
for her. Like Cleopatra’s pearl it would have 
had the charm of extravagance at least; but 
she never gave the colonel credit for such gal- 
lantry, and the more readily believed all he said 
on the subject. 

Colonel Haggerstone proceeded to load the 
pistols with all that pomp and circumstance so 
amusingly displayed by certain people on like 
occasions. The bullets encased in little globes 
of chamois, carefully powdered with emery, 
were forced down the barrels by a hammer, the 
hair trigger adjusted, and the weapon delivered 
to Lady Hester with due solemnity. 

“ If I go wide of the mark, colonel, I beg 
you to remember that I have not had a pistol in 
my hand for above three years ; indeed, it must 


28 THE DALTONS ; OR, T 

be nearly four years since I shot a match with 
Lord Norwood.” 

“Lord Norwood! indeed,” said Haggerstone. 
“ I wasn’t aware that your ladyship had ever 
t>een his antagonist.” 

Had not Lady Hester been herself anxious to 
nide the confusion the allusion to the viscount 
always occasioned her, she could not have failed 
to remark how uncomfortably astonished was 
Haggerstone at the mention of that name. Ner- 
vously eager to do something — any thing that 
might relieve her embarrassment — she pulled 
the trigger; but the aim was an erring one, 
and no trace of the bullet to be seen. 

“ There’s no use in looking for it, Colonel 
Haggerstone,” said she, pettishly; “I’m certain 
I was very wide of the mark.” 

“I’m positive I saw the plaster drop from 
the wall somewhere hereabouts,” said the com- 
plaisant colonel, pointing to a spot close beside 
the figure. “ Yes, and the twigs are broken 
here.” 

“ No matter ; I certainly missed, and that’s 
quite enough. I told you I should, before I 
fired ; and when one has the anticipation of 
failure, it is so easy to vindicate the impression.” 

It was in evident chagrin at her want of suc- 
cess that she spoke, and all her companion’s 
fiatteries went for nothing. Meanwhile, he pre- 
sented the second pistol, which, taking hastily, 
and without giving herself time for an aim, she 
discharged with a like result. 

“I’ll not try again,” said she, pettishly. 

“ Either the pistols don’t suit me, or the place, 
or the light is bad. Something is wrong, that’s 
certain.” 

Haggerstone bit his lip in silence, and went 
on reloading the pistols without trusting himself 
to reply. A little conflict was going on within 
him, and all his intended flatteries for her lady- 
ship were warring with the desire to display his 
own skill, for he was a celebrated shot, and not 
a little vain of the accomplishment. Vanity 
carried the day at last, and, taking up the weap- 
on, he raised it slowly to a level with his eye. 
A second or two he held it thus, his hand steady 
as a piece of marble. 

“ I have taken my aim, and now you may 
give the word for me to fire when you please,” 
said he, turning his eyes from the object, and 
looking straight at Lady Hester. 

She stared at him as if to reassure herself of 
the direction of his glance, and then called out, 
“Fire!” The shot rang out clear and sharp; 
■with it arose a shrill cry of agony, and straight 
before them, at the foot of the pillar, lay some- 
thing which looked like a roll of clothes, only 
that by its panting motion it indicated life. 
Haggerstone sprang forward, and to his horror 
discovered the dwarf, Hans Roeckle, who, with 


HREE ROADS IN LIFE. 

his arm broken, lay actually bathed in blotxL 
With his remaining hand he clasped the littlo 
statue to his bosom, while he muttered to him- 
self the words, “ Gerettet — saved ! saved !” 

While Lady Hester hurried for assistance, 
Haggerstone bound up the bleeding vessels with 
his handkerchief; and in such German as he 
could command, asked how the accident had 
befallen. 

A few low muttering sounds were all the 
dwarf uttered, but he kissed the little image 
with a devotion that seemed like insanity. Mean- 
w T hile the colonel’s servant coming up, at once 
recognized Hans, and exclaimed, “ It is the little 
fellow of the toy-shop, sir. I told you with what 
reluctance he parted with this figure. He must 
be mad, I think.” 

The wild looks and eager expressions of the 
dwarf, as he clutched the image and pressed it 
to his heart, seemed to warrant the suspicion ; 
and Haggerstone thought he could read insanity 
in every line of the poor creature’s face. To 
the crowd that instantaneously gathered around 
the inn door, and which included many of his 
friends and acquaintances, Hans would give no 
other explanation of the event than that it was 
a mere accident ; that he was passing, and re- 
ceived the shot by chance ; nothing more. 

“ Is he not mad, or a fool ?” asked Hanger- 
stone of the innkeeper. 

“Neither, sir; Hans Roeckle is an old and 
respected burgher of our town, and although 
eccentric and odd in his w-ay, is not wanting for 
good sense or good nature.” 

“ Ay , ay !” cried two or three of his towns- 
folk, to whom the landlord translated the colo- 
nel’s question ; “ Hans is a kind-hearted fellow-, 
and if he loves his dolls and wooden images 
overmuch, he never lacks in affection for living 
creatures.” 

While these and such like observations were 
making around him, the dv'arf’s wounds w T ere 
being dressed by his friend, Ludw-ig Kraus, an 
operation of considerable pain, that the little 
fellow bore wfith heroic tranquillity. Not a 
word of complaint, not a syllable of impatience 
escaped him, and while from his half-closed lips 
a low muttered exclamation of “ Saved ! saved !” 
came forth from time to time, the bystanders 
deemed it the utterance of gratitude for his own 
escape with life. 

But once only did any expression of irritation 
burst from him. It w T as when Haggerstone 
pulled out his purse, and, with an ostentatious 
display of munificence, asked him to name his 
recompense. “Take me home ; take me hence !” 
said Hans, impatiently. “ Tell the rich ‘ En- 
glander,’ that there are w T ounds for which sorrow 
would be an ample cure, but there are others 
which insult is sure to fester.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE NIGHT EXCURSION. 


A 


The remainder of the day after the dwarf’s 
misfortune was passed by Lady Hester in a state 
of feverish irritability. Sorry as she felt for the 
“sad accident,” her own phrase, she was still 
more grieved for the effects it produced upon 
herself : the jar and worry of excited feelings — 
the uncomfortableness of being anxious about 
any thing or any body. 

Epicurean in her code of manners as of 
morals, she detested whatever occasioned even 
a passing sensation of dissatisfaction, and hence 
upon the luckless colonel, the author of the 
present evil, fell no measured share of her dis- 
pleasure. “ He should have taken precautions 
against such a mishap — he ought to have had 
sufficient presence of mind to have arrested his 
aim — he should have fired in the air — in fact, 
he ought to have done any thing but what he 
did do;” which was to agitate the nerves, and 
irritate the sensibilities of a fine lady. 

The conduct of the family, too, was the very 
reverse of soothing. Sir Stafford’s gout had re- 
lapsed on hearing of the event. George Ons- 
low’s anger was such that he could not trust 
himself to speak of the occurrence ; and as for 
Sydney, though full of sorrow for the dwarf, she 
had not a single sympathy to bestow upon her 
step-mother. “ Were there ever such people ?” 
she asked herself again and again. Not one had 
taken the trouble to ask her how she bore up, or 
express the slightest anxiety for the consequences 
the shock might occasion her. 

Grounsell was actually insufferable ; and even 
hinted that if any thing untoward were to hap- 
pen, the very grave question might arise as to 
the guilt of the parties who appeared in arms 
without a government permission. He remind- 
ed her ladyship that they were not in England ; 
but in a land beset with its own peculiar pre- 
judices and notions, and in nothing so rigorous 
as in the penalties on accidents that took their 
origin in illegality. 

As for the wound itself, he informed her that 
the bullet had “ traversed the deltoid, but with- 
out dividing the brachial artery ; and, for the 
present, sympathetic fever and subcutaneous in- 
flammation would be the worst consequences.” 
These tidings were neither very re-assuring nor 
intelligible ! but all her cross-examination could 
elicit but little. 

“ Has Colonel Haggerstone been to see him?” 
asked she. 

“ No, madam. His groom called with a 
present of two florins.” 


“ Oh ! impossible, sir.” 

“ Perfectly true, madam. I was present 
when the money was returned to the man by a 
young lady, whose attentions to the sufferer 
saved him the pain this indignity would have 
cost him.” 

“ A young lady, did you say ? How does he 
happen to be so fortunate in his attendance?” 

“ Her father chances to be this poor creature’s 
tenant, and many mutual acts of kindness have 
passed between them.” 

“ Not even scandal could asperse her motives 
in the present case,” said Lady Hester, with an 
insolent laugh. “ It looked hardly human when 
they lifted it from the ground.” 

“ Scandal has been guilty of as gross things, 
madam,” said Grounsell, sternly; “but I would 
defy her here, although there is beauty enough 
to excite all her malevolence.” And with this 
speech, delivered with a pointedness there was 
no mistaking, the doctor left the room. 

Impressions, or what she herself would have 
called “feelings,” chased each other so rapidly 
through Lady Hester’s mind, that her whole 
attention was now directed to the young lady 
of whom Grounsell spoke, and whose singular 
charity excited all her curiosity. There is a 
strange tendency to imitation among those whose 
intelligences lie unexercised by any call of duty 
or necessity. No suggestion coming from with- 
in, they look without themselves for occupation 
and amusement. Lady Hester was a prominent 
disciple of this school. All her life she had 
been following, eager to see whether the fash- 
ions that became, or the pleasures that beguiled 
others, might not suit herself. If such a course 
of existence inevitably conduces to ennui and 
discontent, it is no less difficult to strive against, 
and they who follow in the track of others’ foot- 
steps have all the weariness of the road without 
the cheering excitement of the journey. 

If the young lady found pleasure in charity, 
why shouldn’t she ? Benevolence, too, for aught 
she knew, might be very becoming. There were 
a hundred little devices of costume and manner 
which might be adopted to display it. What a 
pretty version of the good Samaritan modern- 
ized one might give in a Shetland scarf and a 
cottage bonnet — the very thing Chalons would 
like to paint; and what an effective “interior” 
might be made of the dwarf’s chamber, crowd- 
ed with rude peasant faces, all abashed and al- 
most awestruck as she entered. 

The longer she dwelt upon the theme the 


30 


TIIE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


more fascinating it became. “ It would be 
really worth while to realize,” said she to her- 
self at last — “ so amusing — and so odd, an act- 
ual adventure ; besides, in point of fact, it was 
her duty to look after this poor creature.” 
J ust so : there never was a frivolous action, or 
a notion struck out by passing folly, for which 
its author could not find a justification in prin- 
ciple ! We are everlastingly declaring against 
the knaveries and deceptions practiced on us in 
life ; but if we only took count of the cheats we 
play off upon ourselves, we should find that there 
are no such impostors as our own hearts. 

Nobody was ever less likely to make this dis- 
covery than Lady Hester. She believed herself 
every thing that was good and amiable ; she 
knew that she was handsome. Whatever con- 
trarieties she met with in life, she was quite 
certain they came not from any fault of hers ; 
and if self-esteem could give happiness she must 
have enjoyed it. But it can not. The wide 
neutral territory between what we think of our- 
selves and others think of us, is filled with dar- 
ing enemies to our peace, and it is impossible 
to venture into it without a wound to self-love. 

To make her visit to the dwarf sufficient of 
an adventure, it must be done in secret. No- 
body should know it but Celestine, her maid, 
who should accompany her. Affecting a slight 
indisposition she could retire to her room in the 
evening, and then there would be abundant time 
to put her plan into execution. Even these few 
precautions against discovery were needless, for 
George did not return to dinner on that day, and 
Sydney made a headache an excuse for not ap- 
pearing. 

Nothing short of the love of adventure, and 
the indulgence of a caprice, could have induced 
Lady Hester to venture out in such a night. 
The rain fell in torrents, and swooped along the 
narrow streets in channels swollen to the size 
of rivulets. The river itself, fed by many a 
mountain stream, fell tumbling over the rocks 
with a deafening roar, amid which the crashing 
branches of the pine trees were heard at inter- 
vals. What would not have been her anxieties 
and lamentings if exposed to such a storm when 
traveling, surrounded with all the appliances 
that wealth can compass, and yet now, of her 
own free will, she wended her way on foot 
through the darkness and the hurricane, not 
only without complaining, but actually excited 
to a species of pleasure in the notion of her 
imaginary heroism. 

The courier who preceded her, as guide, en- 
joyed no such agreeable illusions, but muttered 
to himself, as he went, certain reflections by no 
means complimentary to the whims of fine ladies. 
While Mademoiselle Celestine inwardly protest- 
ed that any thing, “ not positively wrong,” would 
be dearly purchased by the dangers of such an 
excursion. 

“ Gregoire ! Gregoire ! where is he now ?” 
exclaimed Lady Hester, as she lost sight of her 
guide altogether. 

“ Here, mi ladi,” grunted out the courier, in 


evident pain ; “ I fail to break my neck over do 
stone bench.” 

“Where’s the lantern, Gregoire?” 

“ Blowed away, zum Teufel, I believe.” 

“ What’s he saying, Celestine ?” — what does 
he mean ?” 

But mademoiselle could only answer by a sob 
of agony over her capote de Paris, flattened to 
her head like a Highland bonnet. 

“ Have you no light ? You must get a light 
Gregoire.” 

“Impossible, mi ladi, dere’s nobody livin’ in 
dese houses at all.” 

“ Then you must go back to the inn for one; 
we’ll wait here till you return.” 

A faint shriek from Mademois-elle Celestine 
expressed all the terror such a proposition sug- 
gested. 

“ Mi ladi will be lost if she remain here all 
alone.” 

“ Perdue ! sans doute !” exclaimed Celestine. 

“ 1 am determined to have my way, do as I 
bade you, Gregoire; return for a light, and 
we’ll take such shelter as this door affords, in 
the meanwhile.” 

It was in no spirit of general benevolence 
that Gregoire tracked his road back to the 
“ Russie,” since, if truth must be told, he him- 
self had extinguished the light, in the hope of 
forcing Lady Hester to a retreat. Muttering a 
choice selection of those pleasant phrases with 
which his native German abounds, he trudged 
along, secretly resolving that he would allow 
his mistress a reasonable interval of time to re- 
flect over her madcap expedition. Meanwhile, 
Lady Hester and her maid stood shivering and 
storm-beaten beneath the drip of a narrow eavc. 
The spirit of opposition alone sustained her 
ladyship at this conjuncture, for she was wet 
through, her shoes soaked with rain, and the 
cold blast that swept along seemed as if it 
would freeze the very blood in her heart. 

Celestine could supply but little of comfort 
or consolation, and kept repeating the words, 
“ Quelle aventure ! quelle aventure !” in every 
variety of lamentation. 

“ He could easily have been back by this,” 
said Lady Hester, after a long pause, and an 
anxious attention to every sound that might 
portend his coming; “I’m certain it is full 
half an hour since he left us. What a night !” 

“Et, quelle aventure!” exclaimed Celestine, 
anew. 

None knew better than Lady Hester the 
significant depreciation of the Frenchwoman’s 
phrase, and how differently had she rated all 
the hazards of the enterprise if any compromise 
of character were to have followed it. How- 
ever, it was no time for discussion, and she let 
it pass. 

“ If he should have missed the way, and not 
be able to find us !” said she, after another 
pause. 

“ We shall be found dead in the morning !” 
cried Celestine ; “ et, pour quelle aventure ! 
Mon dieu, pour quelle aventure !” 


31 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


The possibility that her fears suggested, and 
the increasing severity of the storm — for now 
the thunder rolled overhead, and the very 
ground seemed to shake with the reverberation 
— served to alarm Lady Hester, and for the 
first time she became frightened at their situa- 
tion. 

“ We could scarcely find our way back, 
Celestine !” said she, rather in the tone of one 
asking for comfort than putting a question. 

“ Impossible, mi ladi.” 

“ And Gregoire says that these houses are all 
uninhabited.” 

“ Quelle aventure !” sobbed the maid. 

“ What can have become of him? It is more 
than an hour now. What was that, Celestine ? 
was it lightning ? There, don’t you see it 
yonder toward the end of the street. I declare 
it is Gregoire ; I see the lantern !” 

A cry of joy burst from both together* for 
already hope had begun to wane, and a crowd 
of fearful anticipations had taken its place. 

Lady Hester tried to call his name, but the 
clattering noise of the storm drowned the weak 
effort. The light, however, came nearer at each 
instant, and there was no longer any doubt of 
their rescue, when suddenly it turned and dis- 
appeared at an angle of the street. Lady Hester 
uttered a piercing cry, and at the instant the 
lantern was again seen, showing that the bearer 
had heard the sounds. 

“ Here, Gregoire, we are here !” exclaimed 
she, in her loudest voice, and speaking in English. 

Whoever carried the lantern seemed for a 
moment uncertain how to act, for there was no 
reply, nor any change of position for a few sec- 
onds, when at length the light was seen approach- 
ing where Lady Hester stood. 

“ I think I heard an English voice,” said one 
whose accents proclaimed her to be a woman. 

“ Oh, yes !” cried Lady Hester, passionately, 
“I am English. We have lost our way. Our 
courier went back to the inn for a lantern, and 
has never returned, and we are almost dead 
with cold and terror. Can you guide us to the 
Hotel de Russie ?” 

“ The house I live in is only a few yards off. 
It is better you should take shelter there for the 
present.” 

“ Take care, mi ladi !” whispered Celestine, 
eagerly. “ This may be a plot to rob and mur- 
der us.” 

“ Have no fears on that score, mademoiselle,” 
said the unknown, laughing, and speaking in 
French ; “ we are not very rich, but as surely 
we are perfectly safe company.” 

Few as these words were, there was in their 
utterance that indescribable tone of good breed- 
ing and case which at once reassured Lady 
Hester, who now replied to her unseen acquaint- 
ance with the observance due to an equal, and 
willingly accepted the arm she offered for guid- 
ance and support. 

“At the end of this little street, scarcely 
two minutes’ walking, and you will be there,” 
said the unknown. 


Lady Hester scarcely heard the remark, as 
she ran on with voluble levity on the dangers 
they had run : the terrific storm ; the desertion 
of the courier ; her own fortitude ; her maid’s 
cowardice; what must have happened if they 
had not been discovered ; till at last she be- 
thought her of asking by what singular accident 
the other should have been abroad in such a 
terrible night. 

“ A neighbor and a friend of ours is very ill, 
madam, and I have been to the doctor’s to fetch 
some medicine for him.” 

“And I, too, was bent upon a charitable 
errand,” said Lady Hester, quite pleased with 
the opportunity of parading her own merits; 
" to visit a poor creature who was accidentally 
wounded this morning.” 

“It is Hans Roeckle, our poor neighbor, you 
mean,” cried the other, eagerly; “and here we 
are at his house.” And so saying, she pushed 
open a door, to which a bell, attached on the 
inside, gave speedy warning of their approach. 

“Dearest Kate!” cried a voice from within, 
“how uneasy I have been at your absence!” 
And at the same moment a young girl appeared 
with a light, which, as she shaded with her 
hand, left her unaware of the presence of 
strangers. 

“ Think rather of this lady, and what she 
must have suffered,” said Kate, as, drawing 
courteously back, she presented her sister to 
Lady Hester. 

“ Or rather, what I might have suffered,” 
interposed Lady Hester, “ but for the fortunate 
accident of your coming. A few moments back, 
as I stood shivering beneath the storm, I little 
thought that I should owe my rescue to a 
countrywoman. May I learn the name of one 
to whom I am so deeply indebted ?” 

“Dalton, madam,” said Nelly; and then, with 
a slight confusion, added, “We ought, perhaps, 
to tell you the circumstances which induced my 
sister to be abroad at such an hour.” 

“ She knows it all,” broke in Kate, “ and can 
the more readily forgive it, as it was her own 
errand. But will not this lady come near the 
fire?” said she, addressing Mademoiselle Celes- 
tine, who. as she followed the rest into the humble 
chamber, was bestowing a most depreciatory 
glance upon the place, the furniture, and the 
people. 

“ It is only my maid,” said Lady Hester, care- 
lessly ; “ and now it is time I should introduce 
myself, and say that Lady Hester Onslow owes 
you all her gratitude.” Ellen courtesied respect- 
fully at the announcement, but Kate Dalton’s 
cheek colored slightly, and she bent a look of 
more than common admiration at the handsome 
figure of the stranger. An innate reverence for 
rank and title was rooted in her heart, and she 
was overjoyed to think that their chance acquaint- 
ance should be one of that class so distinctively 
j marked out for honor. Prepared to admire every 
grace and fascination of the high-born, Kate 
watched with eager and delighted looks, the 
slightest gestures, the least traits of manner of 


32 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the fashionable beauty. They were all attrac- 
tions to which her heart gave a ready response. 
The accent in which she spoke, the careless ele- 
gance of her attitude as she lay back in her chair, 
the charming negligence with which she wore 
the little portions of dress exchanged for her 
own, were all inimitable graces in the eyes of 
the simple girl. 

As for Lady Hester, accustomed to all the 
servile offices of her own attendants, to be 
punctiliously obeyed and waited on, it was yet 
a new sensation to watch the zealous and eager 
devotion with which the two sisters ministered 
to her wants. In utter forgetfulness of them- 
selves, they had brought forth the little resources 
of their humble wardrobe ; too happy, as it seem- 
ed, when they saw their services so willingly 
accepted. Fortunately, they did not perceive 
the contemptuous looks with which “ Mademoi- 
selle” regarded their attentions, nor overhear 
her exclamation of “ Mon Dieu ! where did they 
gather together these ‘chiffons?’” as she sur- 
veyed the somewhat antiquated stores of their 
toilet. 

Even had Lady Hester’s good breeding not 


prompted a gracious reception of what was so 
generously offered, the very singularity of the 
scene would have had its charm in her estimation 
She was delighted with every thing, even to Kate 
Dalton’s slippers, which, by a most happy flat 
tery, were a little too large for her. She fancied, 
too, that her costume, curiously made up of 
shreds and patches the most incongruous, was 
the dress of an Irish peasant! and was in an 
ecstasy at the thought of a similar one at her 
next fancy ball ! Besides all these internal 
sources of self-satisfaction, the admiration of the 
two sisters was another and more legitimate 
cause of pleasure ; for even Ellen, with all her 
natural reserve and caution, was scarcely less 
impressed than Kate with the charm of those 
fascinations which, however destined but for one 
class of society, are equally successful in all. 

Ellen Dalton’s life had not been devoid of 
trials, nor had they failed to teach their own 
peculiar lessons; and yet her experiences had 
not shown her how very like right feeling good 
breeding can be, and how closely good manners 
may simulate every trait of a high and generous 
nature. 








) 










• I 














CHAPTER IX. 


A FINE LADY’S BLANDISHMENTS. 


We left Lady Hester, in our last chapter, 
employed in the exercise of those fascinations 
which, however unlike in other respects, have 
this resemblance to virtue, that they are assured- 
ly their own reward. The charm of courtesy 
never conferred one half the pleasure on those 
for whom it was exercised as to him who wield- 
ed it. It matters little whether the magician 
be prince or “charlatan,” the art of pleasing is 
one of the most agreeable faculties human nature 
can be endowed with. Whether Lady Hester 
was aware of the theory or not, she felt the 
fact, as she saw the undisguised admiration in 
the faces of the two sisters ; for while she had 
won over Nelly by the elevation of her senti- 
ments and the kindliness of her expressions, 
Kate was fascinated by her beauty, her grace, 
her easy gayety, and a certain voluble lightness 
that simulates frankness. 

Without any thing that approached the pry- 
ing of curiosity, for she was both too well bred 
and too little interested to have felt such a 
motive, she inquired by what accident the Dal- 
tons remained at Baden so late in the season, 
affected to see some similarity between their 
cases and her own, asked in the most feeling 
terms for their father, whose ill health she de- 
plored, and then, took such an interest in “dear 
Frank” that Kate could not resist showing a 
portrait of him, which, however humble its 
claims to art, still conveyed a not unfaithful 
resemblance of the handsome youth. 

While thus hearing about them, she was 
equally communicative about herself, and enlist- 
ed all the sympathies of the girls as she recounted 
their escape from the torrent in the Black Forest, 
and their subsequent refuge in Baden. Thence 
she diverged to Sir Stafford’^ illness, her own 
life of seclusion and sadness, and, by an easy 
transition, came round to poor Hans Roiickie 
and the accident of that morning. 

“ Do tell me every thing about the poor dear 
thing,” said she, pouting'ly. “They say it is 
mad.” 

“ No madam,” said Nelly, gravely ; “ Hans, 
with many eccentricities of manner, is very far 
from deficient in good sense or judgment, and 
is more than ordinarily endowed with right feel- 
ing and kindness of heart.” 

“ He is a dwarf, surely.” 

“Yes, but in intelligence — ” 

C 


“Oh that, of course,” interrupted she; “they 
are rarely deficient in acuteness, but so spiteful, 
so full of malice. My dear child, there’s n® 
trusting them. They never forget an injury, 
nor even an imaginary slight. There was that 
creature — what was his name? — that Polish 
thing, Benywowski, I think; you remember, 
they baked him in a pie, to amuse Charles the 
Second — well, he never forgave it afterward, 
and to the day of his death could never bear 
the sight of pastry.” 

“ I must except poor Hans from this cate- 
gory,” said Nelly, mildly, and with difficulty 
restraining a smile. “ He is amiability itself.” 

Lady Hester shook her head doubtfully, and 
went on. 

“ Their very caprices, my dear, lead them 
into all kind of extravagances. For instance, 
this poor thing, it would seem, is so enamored 
of these wooden toys that he makes himself, 
that he can not bear to part with them. Now 
there’s no saying to what excesses he might be 
carried by this absurd passion. I have read of 
the most atrocious murders committed under a 
similar fanaticism.” 

“ I assure you, madam, there need be no fear 
of such in the present instance. In the first 
case, Hans is too good ; in the second, the ob- 
jects are too valueless.” 

“Very true, so they are; but he doesn’t think 
them so, you know.” 

“ Nay, my lady ; nor would you either, were 
you to regard them with attention,” broke in 
Kate, whose cheek was now one glow of scar- 
let. “Even this, half finished as it is, may lay 
claim to merit.” And as she spoke, she re- 
moved a napkin from a little statue, before 
which she held the candle. 

“ For shame, Kate, dearest Kate !” cried 
Nelly, starting up in bashful discomfiture. 

“It is a statuette of poor Frank, madam,” 
continued Kate, who, totally regardless of her 
sister’s interruption, now exhibited the figure 
nearer. “ You see him just as he left us, his 
knapsack on his shoulder, his sword fastened 
across it, his little cap on one side of his head, 
and that happy smile upon his lips. Poor dear 
fellow ! how sad a heart it covered !” 

“ And was this his work?” asked Lady Hes- 
ter, in astonishment. 

“No, madam ; my sister Nelly was the artist 


34 


THE DALTONS : OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


of this as of all the others. Unaided and un- 
taught, her own ingenuity alone suggesting the 
means, as her imagination supplied the concep- 
tion — ” 

“Kate! dear, dear Kate!” said Ellen, with 
a voice of almost rebuke. “ You forget how 
unworthy these poor efforts are of such high- 
sounding epithets.” Then, turning to Lady 
Hester, she continued, “ Were it to ears less 
charitable than yours, madam, these foolish 
words were spoken, I should fear the criticism 
our presumption would seem to call forth. But 
you will not think harshly of us for ignorance.” 

“But this figure is admirable; the attitude is 
graceful ; the character of the head, the feat- 
ures, are in good keeping. I know, of course, 
nothing of the resemblance to your brother, but, 
as a work of art, I am competent to say it has 
high merit. Do tell me how the thought of 
doing these things first occurred to you.” 

“I learned drawing as a child, madam, and 
was always fond of it,” said Ellen, with a degree 
of constraint that seemed as if the question were 
painful to answer. 

“ Yes, and so have I spent months — ay, I 
believe I might say years — at the easel, copy- 
ing every Giorgione at Venice and every Van- 
dyk at Genoa, and yet such a thought never 
suggested itself to me.” 

“I am happy to think so, madam,” was the 
low response. 

“ Why so? how do you mean ?” asked Lady 
Hester eagerly. 

“ That the motive in my case never could 
have been yours, madam.” 

“ And what was the motive ?” 

“ Poverty, madam. The word is not a pleas- 
ant word to syllable, but it is even better than 
any attempt at disguise. These trifles, while 
beguiling many a dreary hour, have helped us 
through a season of more than usual difficulty.” 

“ Yes, madam,” broke in Kate. “ You are 
aware that papa’s property is in Ireland, and 
for some years back it has been totally unpro- 
ductive ?” 

“ How very sad ; how dreadful,” exclaimed 
Lady Hester. But whether the expression re- 
ferred to the condition of the Daltons, or of 
Ireland, it is not quite clear. 

“I doubt, madam, if I should have ventured 
on the confession,” said Ellen, with a voice of 
calm firmness, “ were it not for the opportunity 
it offers of bearing testimony to the kindness of 
our poor friend yonder, Hans Roeckle. These 
efforts of mine have met such favor in his eyes 
that he accepts them all, taking them as rapidly 
as they are finished, and, I need not say, treat- 
ing me with a generosity that would become a 
more exalted patron and a better artist.” 

“It is quite a romance, I declare,” cried 
Lady Hester. “The Wood Demon and the 
Maiden. Only he is not in love with you, I 
hope ?” 

“I’m not quite so sure of that,” replied Kate, 
laughing ; “ at least, when some rivalry of her 
own wooden images does not intervene.” 


“Hush! Hans is awaking,” said Ellen, as 
on tiptoe she crossed the room noiselessly, and 
opened the door of the chamber where the 
dwarf lay. Lady Hester and Kate now drew 
near and peeped in. On a low settle, over 
which an old scarlet saddle-cloth, fringed with 
tarnished lace, was spread as a quilt, lay Hans 
Roockle, his wounded arm supported by a pil- 
low at his side; his dark eyes glistened with 
the bright glare of fever, and his cheeks were 
flushed and burning, as his lips moved unceas- 
ingly, with a low muttering, which he continued, 
regardless of the presence of those who now ap- 
proached his bed-side. 

“ What is it he is saying ? does he complain 
of pain ?” asked Lady Hester. 

“I can not understand him,” said Nelly ; “for 
ever since his accident he has spoken in his 
native dialect — the patois of the Bregenzer 
Wald — of which I am utterly ignorant ; still he 
will reply to me in good German when ques- 
tioned.” Then stooping down, she asked, “Are 
you better, Hans?” 

Hans looked up steadfastly in her face with- 
out speaking, it seemed as if her voice had 
arrested his wandering faculties, but yet not 
awakened any intelligence. 

“ You are thirsty, Hans,” said she, gently, 
as she lifted a cup of water to his lips. He 
drank greedilv, and then passed his hand across 
his brow, as if trying to dispel some tormenting 
fancies. After a second or two, he said, “It 
was in Nuremberg, in the Oden Gasse, it hap- 
pened. The Ritter von Ottocar stabbed her as 
she knelt at the cross ; and the dwarf, Der 
Mohrchen, as they called him, tore off his tur- 
ban to bind up the wound ; and what was his 
reward, maiden, tell me that ! Are ye all so 
shamed that ye dare not speak it ?” 

“We know it not, Hans; we never heard of 
the Ritter nor the Mohrchen before.” 

“ I’ll tell you, then. , They burned him as a 
warlock in the Hohen Platz next morning.” 
With a burst of wild and savage laughter he 
closed this speech, which he spoke in good Ger- 
man ; but immediately after his thoughts seemed 
to turn to his old Tyrol haunts and the familiar 
language of his native land, as he sung, in a 
low voice, the following words : 

“ A Buchsel zu schiessen, 

A Stossring zu schlagn, 

A Dienal zu Liebn, 

Muss a Bue hahn.” 

“ What does that mean ? do tell me,” said 
Lady Hester, whose interest in the scene was 
more that of curiosity than compassion. 

“It is a peasant dialect; but means, that a 
rifle to shoot with, a weapon to wield, and a 
maiden to love, are all that a good Tyroler 
needs in life,” said Kate, while Nelly busied 
herself in arranging the position of the wounded 
limb ; little offices for which the poor dwarf 
looked his gratitude silently. 

“ How wild his looks are,” said Lady Hester. 
“ See how his eyes glance along the walls, as 
if some objects were moving before them.” 


35 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


And so in reality was it, Hanserl’s looks were 
riveted upon the strange and incongruous as- 
semblage of toys which, either suspended from 
nails or ranged on shelves, decorated the sides 
of the chamber. “ Ay,” said he at last, with a 
melancholy smile, “ thou’lt have to put off’ all 
this bravery soon, my pretty damsels, and don 
the black vail and the hood, for thy master Hans 
is dvin<j !” 

“ He is talking to the wax-figures,” whispered 
Kate.” 

“ And ye, too, my brave hussars, and ye 
Uhlaners with your floating banners, must lower 
your lances as ye march in the funeral proces- 
sion, when Hanserl is dead ! Take down the 
wine-bush from the door, hostess, and kneel 
reverently, for the bell is ringing ; and here 
comes the priest in his alb, and with the pix 
before him. Hush ! they are chanting his re- 
quiem. Ah! yes. Hanserl is away to the far- 
off’ land.” 

“Wo sind die Ta^e lang g-enug 1 , 

Wo sind die Nachte mild.” 

“ Come away, we do but excite his mind to 
wanderings,” said Ellen; “so long as there is 
light to see these toys, his fancy endows them 
all with life and feeling, and his poor brain is 
never at rest.” The sound of voices in the 
outer room at the same moment caught their 

O 

attention, and they heard the courier of Lady 
Hester in deep converse with Mademoiselle 
Celestine. He, deploring the two hours he had 
passed in hunting after his mistress through the 
dark streets of the village ; and she, not less 
eloquently, bewailing the misery of a night spent 
in that comfortless cabin. To visit a wretched 
dwarf, too ! Parbleu ! had it been a rendezvous 
with some one worth while, but an excursion 
without an object, “sans emotion meme ;” it is 
too bad. 

“Que voulez-vous!” said Monsieur Gregoire, 
with a shrug of the shoulders ; “ she is English !” 

“ Ah ! that is no reason for a vulgar caprice, 
and I, for one, will not endure it longer. I can 
not do so. Such things compromise one’s self. 
I’ll give warning to-morrow. What would my 
poor, dear mistress, la marquise, say if she only 
knew how ‘mes petits talents’ were employed.” 

“Do not be rash, mademoiselle,” interposed 
the courier, “ they are rich, very rich, and we 
are going to Italy, too, the real ‘Pays de Co- 
cagne’ of our profession.” 

How far his persuasions might have gone in 
inducing her to reconsider her determination there 
is no saying, when they were suddenly inter- 
rupted by Lady Hester’s appearance. 

Her first care was to ascertain that her ab- 
sence from the hotel had not been remarked — 
her secret, as she loved to fancy it, remained 


sacred. Having learned thus much, she listened 
with a kind of childish pleasure to the courier’s 
version of all his unhappy wanderings in search 
of her, until he at last descried a light, the only 
one that shone from any window in the whole 
village. 

As Gregoire had provided himself with a suf- 
ficient number of shawls, cloaks, and clogs, and, 
as the storm had now passed over, Lady Hester 
prepared to take her leave, delighted with her 
whole night’s adventure. There had been ex- 
citement enough to make it all she could desire ; 
nor did she well know whether most to admire 
her heroism during the storm, or the success 
with which she captivated the two sisters ; the 
courage which planned the expedition, or the 
grace with which it was executed. 

“ You’ll come and see me, Miss Dalton ; 
mind, I’m always at home. Remember, Miss 
Kate Dalton, that they must not deny me to 
said she, in her most winning of manners. 
The two girls gave their promise, in bashful 
diffidence, while she continued, 

“ You’ll say to your papa, too, that Sir Stafford 
will wait on him whenever he is able to leave 
the house. Mr. Onslow, indeed, ought to call 
at once ; but he is so odd. Never mind, we 
shall be great friends ; and you’ll bring all your 
little carving tools and your models with you, 
and work in my room. Your sister her em- 
broidery, or her lace, or her ‘ crochet,’ or what- 
ever it is, or you’ll read German for me — like 
a dear child, that will be so delightful. I can’t 
understand a word of it, but it sounds so soft, 
and you’ll tell me all it’s about — won’t you ? 
And then this poor thing must want for nothing.” 

“ Nay, madam, he is in no need of any thing 
but kindness. In a land where such simple 
habits prevail, Hans Roeckle passes for rich.” 

“ How strange ! how very odd ; but I remem- 
ber that poor Prince of Stolzenheimer. Papa 
used to say that he had six cordons, but only one 
coat ! I believe it was true.” 

“ Hanserl is better off, madam,” replied Nelly, 
smiling, “at least as regards the coats.” 

“Tell him, then, that I’ve been to see him, 
and am so grieved at his accident, but that it 
was all Colonel Haggestone’s fault — a bit of 
silly vanity to show how well he could shoot — 
and I’m certain it just comes of being used to 
the pistols. I never missed when I fired with 
Norwoods !” 

The utterance of that name seemed to recall 
her from the discursive babble. She paused, 
and for a moment or two she was silent. At 
last, turning to the sisters, she reiterated her 
hopes of a speedy meeting, and, with a cordial 
pressure of the hand to each, wished her last 
good night, and departed. 


CHAPTER X. 

A FAMILY DISCUSSION. 


Long before Lady Hester awoke on the fol- 
lowing morning every circumstance of her visit 
was known to Grounsell. It was the doctor’s 
custom to see Dalton early each day, and before 
Sir Stafford was stirring, and to chat away an 
hour or so with the invalid, telling the current 
news of the time, and cheering his spirits by 
those little devices which are not among the 
worst resources of the Materia Medica. With 
all his knowledge of Lady Hester’s character — 
her caprices, her whims, and her insatiable pas- 
sion for excitement, he was still astonished be- 
yond measure at this step : not that the false air 
of benevolence or charity deceived him — he was 
too old a practitioner in medicine, and had seen 
far too much of the dark side of human nature 
to be easily gulled — but his surprise arose from 
the novelty of her condescending to know, and 
even propitiate the good graces of people, whom 
she usually professed to regard as the least in- 
teresting of all classes of mankind. The “ re- 
duced lady or gentleman” had only presented 
themselves to Lady Hester’s mind by the medium 
of an occasional curiously worded advertisement 
in the moi’ning paper, and were invariably as- 
sociated with a subsequent police report, where 
the object of charity was sure to be confronted 
with half-a-dozen peers or members of parlia- 
ment, whose sympathies he had put under con- 
tribution, to support a life of infamy or exti'av- 
agance. “A begging impostor” rang in her 
mind as a phrase whose ingredient words could 
not be divorced, and she was thoroughly con- 
vinced that imposture and poverty were con- 
vertible terms. The very notion of any one 
having once been well off, and being now in 
embarrassment, was, to her deeming, most satis- 
factory evidence of past misconduct and pi'esent 
knavery. Grounsell had heard her hold forth on 
this theme more than once, “ embroidering the 
sentiment” with an occasional sly allusion to 
himself and his own fortunes, so that he had 
often thought over the difficulty of serving the 
Daltons with Sir Stafford, by reflecting on the 
nostility any project would meet with from “ my 
lady,” and now accident, or something very like 
it, had done what all his ingenuity could not 
succeed in discovering. 

The announcement at first rendered him per- 
fectly mute, he heard it without power to make 
the slightest observation ; and it was only at the 
end of a lengthy description from the two sisters, 
that he exclaimed, in a kind of half soliloquy, 


“ By Jove, it is so like her, after all !” 

“I’m sure of it,” said Nelly; “her manner 
was kindness and gentleness itself. You should 
have seen the tender way she took poor Hanserl’s 
hand in her own, and how eagerly she asked us 
to translate for her the few stray words he ut- 
tered.” 

“ Of course she did. I could swear to it all, 
now that my eyes ai'e opened?” 

“And with what winning grace she spoke,” 
cried Kate. “ How the least phrase came from 
her lips with a fascination that still haunts me.” 

“ Just so, just so !” muttered Grounsell. 

“ How such traits of benevolence ennoble high 
station,” said Nelly. 

“ How easy to credit all that one hears of the 
charms of intercourse, where manner like hers 
prevails on every side,” cried Kate, enthusiasti- 
cally. 

“ How thoughtful in all her kindness !” 

“ What elegance in every movement !” 

“ With wffiat inborn courtsey she accepted the 
little valueless attentions, which were all we 
could render her.” 

“ How beautiful she looked, in all the disorder 
of a di'ess, so unlike her own splendor. I could 
almost fancy that old straw chair to be a hand- 
some fauteuil since she sat in it.” 

“ How delightful it must be to be admitted 
to the freedom of daily intercourse with such a 
person — to live within the atmosphere of such 
goodness, and such refinement;” and thus they 
went on ringing the changes upon eveiy gift 
and grace, from the genial warmth of her heart, 
to the snowy whiteness of her dimpled hands; 
while Grounsell fidgeted in his chair — searched 
for his handkerchief — his spectacles — his snuff- 
box, dropped them all in turn, and gathered 
them up again, in a perfect fever of embarrass- 
ment and indecision. 

“ And you see her every day, doctor ?” said 
Nelly. 

“ Yes, every day, madam,” said he, hastily ; 
and not noticing nor thinking to whom he was 
replying. 

“ And is she always as charming, always as 
fascinating ?” 

“ Pretty much the same, I think,” said he, 
with a grunt. 

“ How delightful ; and always in the same 
buoyancy of spirits ?” 

“ Very little changed in that respect,” said 
he, with another grunt. 


37 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“We have often felt for poor Sir Stafford 
being taken ill away from his home, and obliged 
to put up with the miserable resources of a 
watering-place in winter ; but, I own, when> I 
think of the companionship of Lady Hester, much 
of my compassion vanishes.” 

“ He needs it all, then,” said Grounsell, as, 
thrusting his hands into the recesses of his 
pockets, he sat a perfect picture of struggling 
embarrassment. 

“ Are his sufferings so very great?” 

Grounsell nodded abruptly, for now he was 
debating within himself what course to take, for 
while, on one side, he deemed it a point of honor 
rot to divulge to strangers, as were the Daltons, 
any of the domestic circumstances of those with 
whom he lived, he felt, on the other, reluctant 
to suffer Lady Hester’s blandishments to pass 
for qualities more sterling and praiseworthy. 

“ She asked the girls to go and see her,” said 
Dalton, now breaking silence for the first time ; 
for although flattered in the main by what he 
heard of the fine lady’s manner toward his 
daughters, he was not without misgivings that 
what they interpreted as courtesy might just as 
probably be called condescension, against which 
his Irish pride of birth and blood most sturdily 
rebelled. “ She asked them to go and see her, 
and it was running in my head if she might not 
have heard something of the family connection.” 

“Possibly!” assented Grounsell, too deep in 
his own calculations to waste a thought on such 
a speculation. 

“ My wife’s uncle, Joe Godfrey, married an 
Englishwoman. The sister was aunt to some 
rich city banker ; and indeed, to tell the truth, 
his friends in Ireland never thought much of 
the connection — but you see times are changed. 
They are up now, and we are down — the way 
of the world ! It’s little I ever thought of claim- 
ing relationship with the like o’ them !” 

“But if it’s they who seek us, papa?” whis- 
pered Kate. 

“ Ay,” that alters the case, my dear ; not 
but I’d as soon excuse the politeness. Here 
we are, living in a small way; ’till matters come 
round in Ireland, we can’t entertain them — not 
even give them a dinner party.” 

“ Oh, dearest papa,” broke in Nelly; “ is not 
our poverty a blessing if it save us the humilia- 
tion of being absurd ? Why should we think of 
such a thing ? Why should we, with our straiten- 
ed means and the habits narrow fortune teaches, 
presume even to a momentary equality with 
those so much above us.” 

“ Faith, it’s true enough !” cried Dalton, his 
cheek flushed with anger. “ We are changed, 
there’s no doubt of it; or it is not a Dalton would 
say the words you’ve just said. I never knew 
before, that the best in the land wasn’t proud 
to come under our root.” 

“When we had a roof,” said Nelly, firmly. 
“And if these ancestors had possessed a true and 
a higher pride, mayhap we might still have one. 
Had they felt shame to participate in schemes 
of extravagance and costly display — had they 


withheld encouragement from a ruinous mode 
of living, we might still be dwellers in our own 
home and our own country.” 

Dalton seemed thunderstruck at the boldness 
of a speech so unlike the gentle character of her 
who had uttered it. To have attributed any 
portion of the family calamities to their own 
misconduct — to have laid the blame of their 
downfall to any score save that of English legis- 
lation, acts of parliament, grand jury laws, fail- 
ure of the potato crop, tithes, Terry alts, or smut 
in the wheat — was a heresy he never, in his 
gloomiest moments, had imagined, and now he 
was to hear it from the lips of his own child. 

“Nelly — Nelly Dalton,” said he; “but why 
do I call you Dalton? Have you a drop of our 
blood in your veins at all — or is it the Godfreys 
you take after? Extravagance — ruinous living 
— waste — what’ll you say next ?” He couldn’t 
continue, indignation and anger seemed almost 
to suffocate him. 

“ Papa — dearest, kindest papa !” cried Nelly, 
as the tears burst from her eyes, “be not angry 
with me, nor suppose that any ungenerous re- 
pining against our altered lot finds a place in my 
heart. God knows that I grieve not for myself; 
in the humble sphere in which I am placed, I 
have found true contentment — greater, perhaps, 
than higher fortunes would have given me ; for 
here, my duties are better defined, and my sense 
of them is clearer. If I feel sorrow, it is for you 
and my dear sister ; for you, papa, who suffer 
from many a privation, for her, who might well 
adorn a more exalted station. But for me — the 
lame Nelly as children used to call me — ” She 
was not suffered to finish her speech, for already 
her father had clasped his arms around her, and 
Kate, in a gush of tears, was sobbing on his 
shoulder.” 

“ Where’s the doctor — what’s become of 
him ?” said Dalton, as, recovering from his 
emotion, he wished to give a different direction 
to their thoughts. 

“ He went away half an hour ago, papa,” 
said Kate. “ He always goes off without say- 
ing good-by, whenever there is a word said 
about family.” 

“ I noticed that, too, my dear,” said Dalton, 
“ and I wouldn’t wonder if he came of low 
people ; not but he’s a kind creature, and mighty 
good-hearted.” 

Nelly could probably have suggested a bettef 
reason for the doctor’s conduct, but she prudent- 
ly forebore from again alluding to a theme al- 
ready too painful. 

With the reader’s permission, we will now 
follow him, as, with a gesture of impatience, he 
abruptly left the room, on the very first mention 
by Dalton of that genealogical tree, in whose 
branches he loved to perch himself. 

“ An old fool,” muttered Grounsell, as he 
passed down stairs ; “ an old fool that no ex- 
perience will ever make wiser! Well may his 
native country be a stumbling-block to legisla- 
tors, if his countrymen be all like him, with his 
family pride and pretension ! Confound hiiUj 


38 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


can’t he see that there’s no independence for a 
man in debt, and no true self-respect left for 
him who can’t pay his tailor. F or himself there’s 
no help ; but the poor girls ! he’ll be the ruin 
of them. Kate is already a willing listener to 
his nonsensical diatribes about blood and family ; 
and poor Nelly’s spirits will be broken in the 
hopeless conflict, with his folly ! Just so, that 
will be the end of it ; he will turn the head of 
the one, and break the heart of the other, and 
yet, all the while, he firmly believes he is leav- 
ing a better heritage behind him in this empty 
pride, than if he could bequeath every acre that 
once belonged to them.” Thus soliloquizing, 
he went on ringing changes over every form 
of imprudence, waste, vanity, and absurdity, 
which, by applying the simple adjective of 
“ Irish,” he fancied were at once intelligible, 
and needed no other explanation. In this mood 
he made his entrance into Sir Stafford’s cham- 
ber, and so full of his own thoughts, that the 
worthy baronet could not fail to notice his pre- 
occupation. 

“Eh ! Grounsell, what’s the matter — another 
row with my lady, eh?” said he, smiling with 
his own quiet smile. 

“ Not to-day. We’ve not met this morning, 
and, consequently, the armistice of yesterday is 
still unbroken ! The fatigue of last night has 
doubtless induced her to sleep a little longer, 
and so I have contrived to arrive at noon with- 
out the risk of an apoplexy.” 

“ What fatigue do you allude to ?” 

“ Oh, I forgot — I have a long story for you. 
What do you suppose her ladyship has been 
performing now ?” 

“ I’ve heard all about it,” said Sir Stafford, 
pettishly. “ George has given me the whole 
narrative of that unlucky business. We must 
take care of the poor fellow, Grounsell, and see 
that he wants for nothing.” 

“ You’re thinking of the pistol-shooting ; but 
that’s not her ladyship’s last,” said the doctor, 
with a malicious laugh. “ It is as a Lady 
Bountiful she has come out and made her debut , 
last night — I am bound to say with infinite 
success.” And without further preface Groun- 
sell related the whole adventure of Lady Hester’s 
visit to the dwarf, omitting nothing of those de- 
tails we have already laid before the reader, and 
dilating with all his own skill upon the possible 
consequences of the step. “ I have told you 
already about these people ; of that old fool, the 
father, with his Irish pride, his Irish pretensions, 
his poverty, and his insane notions about family. 
Well, his head, a poor thing in the best of times, 
has gone clean mad about this visit. And then 
the girls ! good, dear, affectionate children as 
they are, they’re in a kind of paroxysm of ecstasy 
about her ladyship’s style, her beauty, her dress, 
the charm of her amiability, the fascination of 
her manner. Their little round of daily duties 
will henceforth seem a dreary toil, the very 
offices of their charity will lose all the glow of 
zeal, when deprived of that elegance which re- 
finement can throw over the veriest trifle. Ay ! 


don’t smile at it — the fact is a stubborn one. 
They’d barter the deepest devotion, they ever 
rendered to assauge pain, for one trick of that 
flattery with which my lady captivated them. 

“Will all the poetry of poor Nelly’s heart 
shut out the memory of graces associated with 
the vanities of fashion ? Will all Kate’s dutiful 
affection exalt those household drudgeries in her 
esteem, the performance of which will hence- 
forth serve to separate her more and more from 
one her imagination has already enshrined as 
an idol?” 

“You take the matter too seriously to heart, 
Grounsell,” said Sir Stafford, smiling. 

“Not a bit of it ; I’ve studied symptoms too 
long and too carefully not to be ever on the look- 
out for results. To Lady Hester, this visit is a 
little episode as easily forgotten as any chance 
incident of the journey. But what an event is 
it in the simple story of their lives !” 

“ Well, well, it can not be helped now ; the 
thing is done, and there’s an end of it,” said Sir 
Stafford, pettishly ; “ and I confess I can not see 
the matter as you do, for I have been thinking 
for two days back about these Daltons, and of 
some mode of being of service to them, and this 
very accident may suggest the way. I have 
been looking over some old letters and papers, 
and I’ve no doubt that I have had, unintention- 
ally, of course, a share in the poor fellow’s ruin. 
Do you know, Grounsell, that this is the very 
same Peter Dalton who once wrote to me the 
most insulting letters, and even a defiance to 
fight a duel, because a distant relative bequeath- 
ed to me a certain estate, that more naturally 
should have descended to him. At first, I treat- 
ed the epistles as unworthy of any serious atten- 
tion, they were scarcely intelligible, and not 
distinguished by any thing like a show of reason; 
but when from insult the writer proceeded to 
menace, I mentioned the affair to my lawyer, 
and, indeed, gave him permission to take any 
steps that might be necessary to rid me of so 
unpleasant a correspondent. I never heard more 
of the matter ; but now, on looking over some 
papers, I see that the case went hardly with 
Dalton, for there was a ‘rule to show cause,’ 
and an ‘ attachment,’ and I don’t know what 
besides, obtained against him from the King’s 
Bench, and he was actually imprisoned eight 
months for this very business, so that, besides 
having succeeded to this poor fellow’s prop- 
erty, I have also deprived him of his liberty. 
Quite enough of hardship to have suffered at the 
hands of any one man — and that one, not an 
enemy.” 

“And would you believe it, Onslow, we have 
talked over you and your affairs a hundred times 
together, and yet he has never even alluded to 
this? One would think that such an event would 
make an impression upon most men ; but, as- 
suredly, he is either the most forgetful or the 
most generous fellow on earth.” 

“ How very strange ! And so you tell me that 
he remembers my name, and all the circum- 
stances of that singular bequest, for singular it 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


was, from a man whom I never saw since he I 
Was a boy.” 

“He remembers it all. It was the last blow 
fortune dealt him, and, indeed, he seemed scarce- 
ly to require so heavy a stroke to fell him, for, 
by his own account, he had been struggling on, 
m debt and difficulty, for many a year, putting 
off creditors by the plausible plea that a con- 
siderable estate must eventually fall in to him. 
It is quite certain that he believed this himself, 
but he also maintained a course of expenditure 
that, were he even in possession of the property, 
it would have been impossible to keep up. His 
brother-in-law’s parsimony, too, was a constant 
source of self-gratulation to him, fancying, as 
he did, that a considerable sum in bank stock 
would be among the benefits of this bequest. 
To find himself cut off, without even a mention 
of his name, was then to know that he was 
utterly, irretrievably ruined.” 

“ Poor fellow !” exclaimed Onslow. I never 
suspected the ease had been so hard a one. 
His letters — you shall see them yourself — bore 
all the evidence of a man more touchy on the 
score of a point of honor, than mindful of a mere 
money matter. He seemed desirous of imputing 
to me — who, as I have told you, never saw Mr. 
Godfrey for above forty years — something like 
undue influence, and, in fact, of having preju- 
diced his brother-in-law against him. He dated 
his angry epistles from a park or a castle — I 
forget which — and they bore a seal of armorial 
pretensions, such as an archduke might acknowl- 
edge. All these signs seemed to me so indica- 
tive of fortune and standing, that I set my friend 
down for a very blood-thirsty Irishman, but as- 
suredly never imagined that poverty had con- 
tributed its sting to the injury.” 

“ I can easily conceive all that,” said Groun- 
sell. “ At this very moment with want staring 
him on every side, he’d rather talk of his former 
style at — confound the barbarous place, I never 
can remember the name of it — than he’d listen 
to any suggestion for the future benefit of his 
children.” 

“ I have been a grievous enemy to him,” said 
Sir Stafford, musingly. 

“He reckons the cost at something like six 
thousand a year,” said Grounsell. 

“Not the half of it, doctor. The estate, 
when I succeeded to it, was in a ruinous condi- 
tion. A pauper and rebellious tenantry holding 
their tenures on nominal rents, and either living 
in open defiance of all law, or scheming to 
evade it by a hundred subterfuges. Matters are 
somewhat better, but if so, it has cost me 
largely to make them so. Disabuse his mind. 


39 

I beg you, of this error. His loss was at least 
not so heavy as he reckoned.” 

“Faith, I’ll scarcely venture on so very deli- 
cate a theme,” said Grounsell. dryly. “I’m 
not quite so sure how he’d take it.” 

“ I see, doctor,” said Onslow, laughing, 
“that his dueling tastes have impressed you 
with a proper degree of respect. Well, let us 
think of something more to the purpose than 
rectifying a mere mistaken opinion. How 
can we serve him ? What can be done for him ?” 

“ Ruined gentlemen, like second-hand uni- 
forms, are generally sent to the colonies,” said 
Grounsell ; “but Dalton is scarcely fit for export.” 

“ What if we could get him appointed a mag- 
istrate in one of the West India Islands?” 

“New rum would finish him the first rainy 
season.” 

“ Is he fit for a consulship ?” 

“ About as much as for lord chancellor. I 
tell you the man’s pride would revolt at any 
thing to which a duty was annexed. Whatever 
you decide on must be untrameled by any con- 
dition of this kind.” 

“ An annuity then, some moderate sum suffi- 
cient to support them in respectability,” said 
Onslow ; “ that is the only thing I see for it, and 
I am quite ready to do my part, which, indeed, 
is full as much a matter of honor as generosity.” 

“ How will you induce him to accept it?” 

“We can manage that, I fancy, with a little 
contrivance. I’ll consult Prichard, he is coming 
here this very day about those renewals, and 
he’ll find a way of doing it.” 

“ You’ll have need of great caution,” said 
Grounsell ; “ without being naturally suspicious, 
misfortune has rendered him very sensitive as to 
any thing like a slight. To this hour he is 
ignorant that his daughter sells those little fig- 
ures ; and although he sees, in a hundred appli- 
ances to his comfort, signs of resources of which 
he knows nothing, he never troubles his head 
how the money comes.” 

“ What a strange character.” 

“Strange, indeed. True pride and false 
pride, manly patience, childish petulence, gen- 
erosity, selfishness, liberality, meanness, even to 
the spirits alternating between boy-like levity 
and downright despair ! the whole is such a 
mixture as I never saw before, and yet I can 
fancy it is as much the national temperament as 
that of the individual.” 

And now Grounsell, launched upon a sea 
without compass or chart, hurried off to lose 
himself in vague speculation, about questions 
that have puzzled, and are puzzling, wiser 
heads than his. 


CHAPTER XI. 


“A PEEP BETWEEN THE SHUTTERS” AT A NEW CHARACTER. 


Not even Mademoiselle Celestine herself, nor 
the two London footmen, now condemned to ex- 
hibit their splendid proportions to the untutored 
gaze of German rustics, could have chafed and 
fretted under the unhappy detention at Baden, 
with a greater impatience, than did George 
Onslow. A young Guardsman, who often fan- 
cied that London, out of season, was a species 
of Palmyra ; who lived but for the life that only 
one capital affords ; who could not credit the 
fact, that people could ride, dress, dine, and 
drive any where else — was lamentably “ ill be- 
stowed” among the hills and valleys, the wind- 
ing glens and dense pine forests of a little corner 
of Germany. 

If he liked the excitement of hard exercise, it 
was when the pleasure was combined with 
somewhat of peril, as in a fox-hunt, or height- 
ened by the animation of a contest, in a rowing 
match. Scenery, too, he cared for, when it 
came among the incidents of a deer-stalking day, 
in the Highlands. Even walking, if it were a 
match against time, was positively not distaste- 
ful ; but to ride, walk, row, or exert himself, for 
the mere exercise, was, in his philosophy, only a 
degree better than a sentence to the tread-mill. 
The slavery being voluntary, not serving to ex- 
alt the motive. 

To a mind thus constituted, the delay at 
Baden was intolerable. Lady Hester’s system 
of small irritations and provocations rendered 
domesticity and home life out of the question. 
She was never much given to reading at any 
time, and now books were not to be had ; Syd- 
ney was so taken up with studying German, 
that she was quite uncompanionable. Her 
father was too weak to bear much conversation : 
and as for Grounsell, George always set him 
down for a quiz : good-hearted in his way, but 
a bit of a bore, and too fond of old stories. Had 
he been a young lady, in such a predicament, he 
would have kept a journal, a petty martyrology 
of himself and his feelings, and eked out his 
sorrows between Childe Harold and Werther. 
Had he been an elderly one, he would have 
written folios by the post, and covered acres of 
canvas with dogs in worsted, and tigers in Ber- 
lin wool. Alas ! he had no such resources. 
Education had supplied him with but one com- 
fort and consolation — a cigar, and so he smoked 
away, incessantly — sometimes as he lounged I 
out of the window, after breakfast, in all the 
glory of an embroidered velvet cap, and a gor- 


geous dressing gown, sometimes as he sauntered 
in the empty saloon, or the deserted corridors, 
in the weed-grown garden, in the dishabille of a 
many-pocketed shooting jacket, and cork-soled 
shoes. Now, as he lounged along the dreary 
streets, or paced along the little wooden bridge, 
wondering within himself how much longer a 
man could resist the temptation that suggested 
a spring over the balustrade into the dark pool 
beneath. 

He had come abroad partly for Sydney’s sake, 
partly because, having “ gone somewhat too 
fast” in town, an absence had become advisable. 
But now, as he sauntered about the deserted 
streets of the little village, not knowing how 
long the durance might last ; without an occu- 
pation ; without a resource ; both his brotherly 
love and prudence began to fail him, and he 
wished he had remained behind, and taken the 
chances, whatever they might be, of his credi- 
tors’ forbearance. His mone3 r ed embarrassments 
involved nothing dishonorable ; he had done no 
more than what some score of very well-princi- 
pled young men had done, and are doing at this 
very hour — ay, good reader, and will do again, 
when you and I have gone where all our moral- 
izing will not deceive any more — he had con- 
tracted debts, the payment of which must depend 
upon others — he had borrowed, what no efforts 
of his own could restore — he had gambled, and 
lost sums totally disproportionate to his fortune ; 
but, in all these things, he was still within the 
pale of honorable conduct — at least, so said the 
code under which he lived, and George be- 
lieved it. 

Sir Stafford, who only learned about the half, 
of his son’s liabilities, was thunderstruck at the 
amount. It was scarcely a year-and-a-half ago, 
that he had paid all George’s debts, and they 
were then no trifles ; and now he saw all the old 
items revived and magnified, as if there were 
only one beaten road to ruin — and that began at 
Crocky’s, and ended at “the Bench.” The 
very names of the dramatis persona were the 
same. It was Lazarus Levi lent the money, at 
sixty per cent. It was another patriarch, called 
Gideon Masham, discounted the same. A lucky 
viscount had once more “done the trick” at 
hazard; and if Cribbiter had not broken down 
. in training, why Madame Pompadour had, and 
; so the same result came about. George Onslow 
had got what Newmarket-men call a “ squeeze , 5 
and was in for about seven thousand pounds. 


41 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Nothing is more remarkable in our English 
code social, than the ingenuity with which we 
have contrived to divide ranks and classes of 
men, making distinctions so subtle, that only 
long habit and training are able to appreciate. 
Not alone are the gradations of our nobility 
accurately defined, but the same distinctions 
prevail among the “untitled” classes, and even 
descend to the professional and trading ranks ; 
so that the dealer in one commodity shall take 
the “pas” of another; and he who purveys the 
glass of port for your dessert, would be outraged 
if classed with him who contributed the Stilton ! 
These hair splittings are very unintelligible to 
foreigners ; but as we hold to them, the pre- 
sumption is, that they suit us ; and I should not 
have stopped now to bestow a passing notice on 
the system, if it were not that we see it, in some 
cases, pushed to a degree of extreme resembling 
absurdity, making even of the same career in 
life a sliding-scale of respectability ; as for in- 
stance, when a young gentleman of good expec- 
tations and fair fortune has outraged his guard- 
ians and his friends by extravagance, he is 
immediately removed from the Guards, and 
drafted into the Infantry of the Line ; if he mis- 
behave there, they usually send him to India ; is 
he incorrigible, he is compelled to remain in 
some regiment there, or in cases of inveterate 
bad habits, he exchanges into the Cape Rifles, 
and gets his next removal from the knife of a 
Caffre. 

Ancient geographers have decided, we are 
not aware on what grounds, that there is a 
place between “H — 11 and Connaught.” Mod- 
ern discovery, with more certitude, has shown 
one between the Guards and the Line. A 
species of military purgatory, w r here, after a due 
expiation of offenses, the sinner may return to 
the Paradise of the Household Brigade without 
ever transgressing the Inferno of a marching 
regiment. This half- wny stage is the “Rifles.” 
So long as a young fashionable falls no lower 
he is safe. There is no impugnment of charac- 
ter ; no injury that can not be repaired. Now, 
George Onslow had reached so far. He was 
compelled to exchange into the — th, then quar- 
tered in Ireland. It is true he did not join his 
regiment ; his father had interest enough some- 
where to obtain a leave of absence for his son, 
and first Lieutenant Onslow, vice Ridgeway 
promoted, was suffered to amuse himself how*- 
soever and wheresoever he pleased. 

The “ exchange,” and the reasons for which 
it was effected, w T ere both unpleasant subjects 
of reflection to George; and as he had few 
others, these continued to haunt him, till at 
last he fancied that every one was full of the 
circumstance, each muttering as he passed, 
“ That’s Onslow, that was in the Coldstreams.” 
Lady Hester, indeed, did not always leave the 
matter purely imaginary, but threw out occa- 
sional hints about soldiers who never served, 
except at St. James’s or Windsor, and who 
were kept for the wonderment and admiration 
of foreign sovereigns when visiting England ; 


just as Suffolk breeders exhibit a “ punch ;” or 
a Berkshire farmer will show a hog, for the 
delectation of swine fanciers. Where children 
show toys, kings show soldiers, and ours are 
considered very creditable productions of the 
kind; but Lady Hester averred, with more of 
truth than she believed, that a man of spirit 
would prefer a somewhat different career. 
These currents, coming as they did in season 
and out of season, did not add to the induce- 
ments for keeping the house, and so George 
usually left home each day, and rarely returned 
to it before nightfall. 

It is true he might have associated with Hag- 
gerstone, who, on being introduced, made the 
most courteous advances to his intimacy; but 
George Onslow was bred in a school whose first 
lesson is a sensitive shrinking from acquaint- 
ance, and whose chief characteristic is distrust. 
Now he either had heard, or fancied he had 
heard, something about Haggerstone. “ The 
colonel wasn’t all right,” somehow or other. 
There was a story aoout him, or somebody of 
his set, and, in fact, it was as well to be cau- 
tious ; and so the young Guardsman, who would 
have ventured his neck in a steeple-chase, or 
his fortune on a “ Derby,” exhibited all the de- 
liberative wisdom of a judge as to the formation 
of a passing acquaintance. 

If we have been somewhat prolix in explain- 
ing the reasons of the young gentleman’s soli- 
tude, our excuse is, that he had thereby con- 
veyed, not alone all that we know, but all that 
is necessary to be known of his character. Ho 
was one of a class so large in the world, that 
few people could not count some half dozen, at 
least, similar among their acquaintance ; and 
all of whom would be currently set down as 
incapables, if it were not that now and then, 
every ten years or so, one of these well-looking, 
well-bred, indolent dandies, as if tired of his 
own weariness, turns out to be either a dashing 
soldier, with a heart to dare, and a head to 
devise the boldest achievements, or a politic 
leader, w T ith resources of knowledge, and a skill 
in debate, to confront the most polished and 
practiced veteran in “the Commons.” 

Our own experiences of our own day show 
that these are no paradoxical speculations. But 
we must not pursue the theme further ; and have 
only to add, that the reader is not to believe 
that George Onslow formed one of these bril- 
liant exceptions. Whether the fault lies more 
in himself, or in us, w T e must not inquire. 

If his lonely walks did not suggest any pleas- 
ant reveries, the past did not bring any more 
agreeable tidings. Dry statements from Mr. 
Orson, his lawyer — every young man about 
town has his lawyer nowadays — about the dif- 
ficulty of arranging his affairs, being the chief 
intelligence he received, with, from time to 
time, a short and pithy epistle from a certain 
noble creditor, Lord Norwood, who, although 
having won very large sums from Onslow, 
never seemed in such pressing difficulty as since 
his good fortune. 


42 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


The viscount’s style epistolary was neither 
so marked by originality, nor so worthy of 
imitation, that it would be worth communica- 
ting ; but as one of his letters bears slightly 
upon the interests of our story, we are induced 
to give it ; and being, like all his correspond- 
ence, very brief, we will communicate it in 
extenso. 

“ Oh, Norwood again !” said Onslow, as he 
looked at the seal, and read the not very legible 
autograph in the corner. “ My noble friend 
does not give a very long respite ;” and biting 
his lip in some impatience, he opened the paper 
and read : 

“ Dear Onslow — Orson has paid me the two 
thousand, as you ordered, but positively refuses the 
seventeen hundred and eighty, the Ascot affair, be- 
cause I can not give up the original two bills for 
twelve hundred passed to me for that debt. I told 
him that they were thrown into the fire, being 
devilishly tempted to illustrate the process with 
himself, six months ago, when you gave the 
renewals 5 but all won’t do, the old prig per- 
sists in his demand, to comply with what is 
clearly impossible, for I have not even preserved 
the precious ashes of the incremation. I don’t 
doubt, but that legally speaking, and in petti- 
fogging parlance, he is all correct ; but between 
men of honor, such strictness is downright ab- 
surdity; and as Dilhurst says, ‘something more.’ 
Now, my dear boy, you must write to him, and 
at once too, for I’m in a bad book about ‘ Chant- 
icleer,’ who is to win it seems, after all, and say 
that he is acting in direct opposition to your 
wishes, as of course he is ; that the money must 
be paid without more chaffing. The delay has 
already put me to great inconvenience, and I 
know how you w r ill be provoked at his obstinacy. 
You’ve heard ‘I suppose,’ that Brentwood is 
going to marry Lydia Vaughan ; she has thirty 
thousand pounds, which is exactly what Jack 
lost last winter. Crosbie says he ought to ‘run 
away from her, after the start, as he carries no 
weight;’ which is somewhat of my own opinion. 
What any man has to do with a wife, nowadays, 
with the funds at eighty-two, and a dark horse 
first favorite for the Oaks, is more than I know. 
Doncaster has levanted, and the Red House folk 
will smart for it; he w T ould back Hayes’ lot, 
and there’s nothing can ever set him right again. 
By the way, Orson hints that if I give him a 
release, or something of that sort, with respect 
to the bills, he’d pay the cash ; but this is only 
a dodge, to make a case for lawyers’ parchments, 
stamps, and so forth ; so I won’t stand it. 
Your writing to him will do the whole thing at 
once. What a jolly world it would be, old fel- 
low, if the whole race of Orsons were carried 
off by the cholera, or any thing akin. They 
are the greatest enemies to human peace in 
existence. 

“Believe me, yours, most faithfully, 

“ Norwood.” 

“P.S. — I half fancy Baden is empty by this; 
but if you chance upon a little fellow — heaven 


| knows to whom he belongs, or whence he 
comes — called Albert Jekyl, will you tell him 
that I’ll forward the twenty pounds whenever I 
win the Oaks, or marry Miss Home Greville, 
or any other similar piece of good fortune. 
When he lent me the cash, I don’t believe he 
was the owner of as much more in the world ; 
but it suited him to have a viscount in his debt 
— a devilish bad investment if he knew but all. 
The chances therefore are that he has foundered 
long ago, and you will be spared the trouble of 
the explanation ; but if he survive, say some- 
thing apologetic, for letter-writing and foreign 
postage are only making bad worse.” 

Although, unquestionably, the postscript of 
this elegant epistle was the part which reflected 
most severely upon the writer’s good feeling 
and sense of honor, George Onslow was moro 
struck by what related to his own affairs, nor 
was it till after the lapse of some days that he 
took the trouble of considering the paragraph, 
or learning the name of the individual referred 
to. Even then all that he could remember 
was, that he had seen or heard the name 
“somewhere,” and thus, very possibly, the 
whole matter would have glided from his mem- 
ory, if accident had not brought up the recollec- 
tion. 

Returning one evening later than usual from 
his solitary walk, he found that the hotel was 
closed, the door strongly secured, and all the 
usual precautions of the night taken, in the 
belief that the inmates were already safe within 
doors. In vain he knocked and thundered at 
the massive panels ; the few servants occupied 
rooms at a distance, and heard nothing of the 
uproar ; he shouted, he screamed, he threw 
gravel against the windows, and, in his zeal, 
smashed them too. All was fruitless ; nobody 
stirred; nor could he detect the slightest sign 
of human presence in the vast and dreary-look- 
ing building before him. The prospect was not 
a pleasant one ; and a December night, in the 
open air, was by no means desirable ; and yet, 
where should he turn for shelter ? The other 
hotels were all closed and deserted, and even 
of the private houses not one in twenty was in- 
habited. Resolving to give himself one chance 
more for admission, he scaled the paling of the 
garden and reached the rear of the hotel ; but 
here all his efforts proved just as profitless as 
the former, and he was at last about to abandon 
all hope, when he caught sight of a faint gleam 
of light issuing from a small window on the first 
floor. Having failed to attract notice by all his 
cries and shouts, he determined to reach the 
window, to which, fortunately, a large vine, 
attached to the wall, offered an easy access. 
George was an expert climber, and in less than 
a minute found himself seated on the window- 
sill, and gazing into a room, by the aperture 
between the half-closed shutters. His first im- 
pression on looking in was, that it was a servant’s 
room. The bare, whitewashed walls ; the hum- 
ble, uncurtained bed; three chairs, of coarse 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


wood, all strengthened this suspicion, even to 
the table, covered by a coarse table-cloth, and 
on which stood a meal — if meal it could be 
called — an anchorite might have eaten on Fri- 
day. A plate of the common brown bread of the 
country was balanced by a little dish of radishes, 
next to which stood a most diminutive piece of 
Baden cheese, and a capacious decanter of water ; 
a long-wicked tallow candle throwing its gloomy 
gleam over the whole. For a moment or two 
George was unable to detect the owner of this 
simple repast, as he was engaged in replenish- 
ing his fire ; but he speedily returned and took 
his place at the table, spreading his napkin 
before him, and surveying the board with an air 
of self-satisfaction, such as a gourmand might 
bestow upon the most perfect petit diner. In 
dress, air, and look, he was thoroughly gentle- 
manlike ; a little foppish perhaps in the arrange- 
ment of his hair, and somewhat too much dis- 
play in the jeweled ornaments that studded his 
neckcloth ; even in his attitude as he sat at the 
table, there was a certain air of studied elegance 
that formed a curious contrast with the miser- 
able meal before him. Helping himself to a 
small portion of cheese, and filling out a goblet 
of that element which neither cheers nor ine- 
briates, he proceeded to eat his supper. Onslow 
looked on with a mingled sense of wonder and 
ridicule, and while half-disposed to laugh at the 
disparity of the entertainment and him who 
partook of it. there was something in the scene 
which repressed his scorn and rendered him 
even an interested spectator of what went for- 
ward. The piercing cold of the night at length 
admonished him that he should provide for his 
own admission into the hotel ; and although 
nothing was now easier than to make his pres- 
ence known, yet he felt a natural reluctance 
at the pain he must occasion to the stranger, 
whose frugal mode of living and humble interior 
would be thus so unceremoniously exposed. 
The chances are, thought George, that these 
privations are only endurable because they 
are practiced in secret, and at no sacrifice 
of worldly estimation. How can I then, or 
what right have I to inflict the torture of an 
exposure on this young man, whoever he is ? 
The conclusion was very rapidly come to, and 
not less speedily acted upon ; for he determined 
to spend the night, if need be, in the open air, 
rather than accept an alternative so painful in 
its consequences. His resolutions had usually 
not long to wait their accomplishment ; and, 
turning his back to the window, and disdaining 
the slow process by which he had gained the 
ascent, he sprang with one leap down to the 
ground : in doing so, however, his elbow struck 
the window; and at the same instant that he 
reached the earth the shivered fragments of a 
pane of glass came clattering after him. In a 
moment the sash was thrown open and a head 
appeared above. “I have smashed the win- 
dow,” cried George, in French, as the only 
means of being heard. “ They have locked j 
me out of the hotel, and I don’t fancy spending ] 


43 

a winter’s night in walking the streets of 
Baden.” 

“You’re an Englishman?” said the voice 
from above, in English. 

“ Yes ; but I don’t see what that has to do 
with the matter,” replied Onslow, testily; “even 
a Laplander might prefer shelter in such a 
season.” 

“If you’ll have the goodness to come round 
to the front door,” said the voice — one of the 
very softest and meekest of voices — “I shall 
have great pleasure in opening it for you.” 
And at the same time the unknown held forth 
his candle in polite guidance to the other’s steps. 

“Thanks, thanks; never mind the light. I 
know the way perfectly,” said George, not a 
little ashamed at the contrast between his own 
grufifness and the courtesy of the stranger whose 
window he had broken. 

Onslow had barely time to reach the front- 
door of the inn, when it was opened for him, 
and he saw before him a very dapper little 
figure, who, with a profusion of regrets at not 
having heard him before, offered his candle, a 
wax one on this occasion, for George’s accom- 
modation. Protesting that the broken pane was 
not of the slightest inconvenience — that the 
room was a small dressing closet — that it was 
not worth a moment’s thought, and so forth, he 
permitted Onslow to escort him to the door of 
his room, and then wished him a good-night. 
The scene scarcely occupied the time we have 
taken to relate it, and yet in that very short 
space George Onslow had opportunity to see 
that the unknown had all the easy deportment 
and quiet breeding of one accustomed to good 
society. There was, perhaps, a little excess 
of courtesy, at least according to that school of 
politeness in which Onslow had been taught ; 
but this might be the effect of living abroad, 
where such a tone usually prevailed. The ur- 
banity was not exactly cold enough for George’s 
notions. No matter, “ he’s no snob, that’s 
clear,” thought he, “ and even if he were, he’s 
done me good service ;” and with this blending 
of selfishness and speculation he went to sleep, 
and slept soundly, too, not harassed by even a 
thought of him, who passed an hour in the 
effort to repair his broken window, and shivered 
the rest of the night through from the insuffi- 
ciency of his skill. 

Blessed immunity theirs, who so easily forget 
the pain they occasion others, and who deem 
all things trifles that cost themselves no after- 
thought of regret. Happy the nature that can, 
without self-repining, spill the wine over Aunt 
Betty’s, one, “ peach-colored satin,” or in care- 
less mood pluck the solitary flower of her only 
geranium. Enviable stoicism that mislays the 
keep-sake of some poor widow, or lames the 
old curate’s cob, the fond companion of many 
rambles. These, whatever others think, are 
very enviable traits, and enable the possessors 
to wear placid countenances, and talk in most 
meritorious strain on the blessings of equanimity 
and the excellent fruits of a well-trained mind. 


CHAPTER XII. 

MR. ALBERT JEKYL. 


Onslow’s first thought, on awaking the next J 
morning, was of last night’s acquaintance, but 
all the information he could obtain concerning 
him, was that he was an Englishman who had 
passed the summer in Baden, and during the 
season, knew and was known by every one. 
The waiter called him, in the usual formulary, 
“ a ver} r nice gentleman and seemed by his 
manner to infer that any further account might 
be had b} r — paying for it. Onslow, if he even 
understood the hint, was not the man to avail 
himself of it, so he simply ordered him to bring 
the hotel book, in which the names of all trav- 
elers are inscribed, and at once discovered that 
the proprietor of the humble “ entresol^ No. 6, 
was a Mr. Albert Jekyl, with the ordinary 
qualification attached to him of “ Rentier An- 
glais.” Searching back in the same instructive 
volume, he found that on his arrival in June, 
Mr. Jekyl had occupied a small apartment on 
the first, floor, from which he had subsequently 
removed to the second ; thence to a single 
room in the third story, and finally settled down 
in the quiet, seclusion of the small chamber, 
where George had first seen him. These were 
very small materials from which to compile a 
history, but at least they conveyed one inference, 
and that, a very common one — that the height 
of Mr. Jekyl’s fortune and that of his dwelling, 
observed to each other an inverse proportion, 
and that as his means went down, he went up. 
If, then, no very valuable contribution to the 
gentleman’s history was contained here, at least 
the page recorded his name ; and George, re- 
opening Norwood’s letter, satisfied himself that 
this was the same confiding individual who had 
intrusted the noble viscount with the loan of 
twenty pounds. George now remembered to 
have seen his card on Lady Hester’s table, with 
inquiry after Sir Stafford. “ Poor fellow !” 
thought he; “another victim of ‘ trente-et-un.’ 
They have cleared him out at the tables, and 
he is either ashamed to write home, or his 
friends have refused to assist him. And Nor- 
wood, too — the heartlessness of putting to con- 
tribution a poor young fellow like this !” Onslow 
thought worse of this than of fifty other sharp 
things of the noble lord’s doing, and of some of 
which he had been himself the victim. 

“ I’ll call upon him this very morning !” said 
George, half aloud, and with the tone and air 
of a man who feels he has said a very generous 
thing, and expressed a sentiment that he is well 
aware will expose him to a certain amount of 
reprobation. “ Jekyl, after all, is a right good 
name. Lady Hester said something about 
Jekyls that she knew, or was related to. Good 
style of fellow — he looked a little Tigerish but 


that comes of the Continent. If he be really 
presentable, too, my lady will be glad to receive 
him in her present state of destitution. Nor- 
wood’s ungracious message was a bore to be 
sure, but then he need not deliver it — there 
was no necessity of taking trouble to be dis- 
agreeable — or better again — far better,” thought 
he, and he burst out laughing at the happy no- 
tion, “ I’ll misunderstand his meaning, and pay 
the money. An excellent thought ; for as I am 
about to book up a heavy sum to his lordship, 
it’s only d . ducting twenty pounds and handing 
it to Jekyl, and I’ll be sworn he wants it most 
of us all.” 

The more Onslow reflected on it the more 
delighted was he with this admirable device; 
and it is but fair to add, that however gratified 
at the opportunity of doing a kindness, he was 
even better pleased at the thought of how their 
acquaintance at the “Grosvenor” and the “Ul- 
tras” would laugh at the “sharp viscount’s 
being sold.” There was only one man of all 
Onslow’s set on whom he would have liked to 
practice this jest, and that man was Norwood. 
Having decided upon his plan, he next thought 
of the execution of it, and this he determined 
should be by letter. A short note, conveying 
Norwood’s message and the twenty pounds, 
would save all explanation, and spare Jekyl 
any unpleasant feeling the discussion of a private 
circumstance might occasion. 

Onslow’s note concluded with his “thanks 
for Mr. Jekyl’s kindness on the preceding even- 
ing,” and expressing a wish to know, “at 
what hour Mr. J. would receive a visit from 
him.” 

Within a very few minutes after the billet 
was dispatched, a servant announced Mr. Albert 
Jekyl, and that young gentleman, in the glory 
of a very magnificent brocade dressing gown, 
and a Greek cap, with slippers of black velvet, 
embroidered in gold, entered the room. 

Onslow, himself a distinguished member of 
that modern school of dandyism whose prido 
lies in studs and shirt-pins, in watch-chains, 
rings, and jeweled canes, was struck by the 
costly elegance of his visitor’s toilet. The 
opal buttons at his wrists ; the single diamond, 
of great size and brilliancy, on his finger — even 
the massive amber mouthpiece of the splendid 
meerschaum he carried in his hand, were all 
evidences of the most expensive tastes. “ Could 
this by possibility be the man he had seen at 
supper?” was the question he at once asked 
himself; but there was no time to discuss the 
point, as Jekyl, in a voice almost girlish in its 
softness, said, 

“I could not help coming at once to thank 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


you, Mr. Onslow, for your polite note, and say j 
how gratified I feel at making your acquaint- 
ance. Maynard often spoke of you to me ; and 
I confess I was twenty times a day tempted to 
introduce myself.” 

“ Maynard — Sir Horace Maynard !” cried 
Onslow, with a slight flush — half pleasure, lialf 
surprise ; for the baronet was the leader of the 
set George belonged to — a man of great for- 
tune, ancient family, the most successful on the 
English turf, and the envy of every young fellow 
about town. “ Do you know Maynard ?” 

“ Oh, very well indeed,” lisped Jekyl ; “ and 
like him much.” 

Onslow could not help a stare at the man 
who, with perfect coolness and such an air of 
patronage, professed his opinion of the most 
distinguished fashionable of the day. 

“He has a very pretty taste in equipage,” 
continued Jekyl ; “ but never could attain to 
the slightest knowledge of a dinner.” 

Onslow was thunderstruck. Maynard, whose 
entertainments were the triumph of the Claren- 
don, thus criticised by the man he had seen 
supping like a mouse on a morsel of mouldy 
cheese ! 

“ Talking of dinners, by the way,” said Jekyl, 
“what became of Merewater?” 

“ Lord Merewater ? he was in waiting when 
we left England.” 

“A very tidy cook he used to have — a Span- 
iard called Jose — a perfect hand at all the 
Provencal dishes. Good creature, Merewater. 
Don’t you think so?” 

Onslow muttered a kind of half-assent; and 
added, “ I don’t know him.” Indeed, the lord 
in question was reputed as insufferably proud, 
and as rarely admitting a commoner to the 
honor of his acquaintance. 

“ Poor Merewater ! I remember playing him 
such a trick : to this hour he does not know 
who did it. I stole the “menu,” of one of his 
grand dinners, and gave it to old Lord Bristock’s 
cook — a creature that might have made the 
messes for an emigrant ship — and such a tra- 
vestie of an entertainment never was seen. 
Merewater affected illness, and went away 
from the table firmiy persuaded that the whole 
was got up to affront him.” 

“ I thought the Earl of Bristock lived well 
and handsomely,” said George. 

“Down at Brentwood it was very well — one 
was in the country — and grouse and woodcocks, 
and salmon and pheasants, came all naturally 
and seasonably; besides, he really had some 
very remarkable Burgundy; and, though few 
people will drink it nowadays, Chambertin is 
a Christmas wine.” 

The cheese and the decanter of water were 
uppermost in George’s mind, but he said nothing, 
suffering his companion to run on, which he did, 
over a wide expanse of titled and distinguished 
families, with all of whom he appeared to have 
lived on the closest terms of intimacy. Cer- 
tainly of those Onslow himself knew Jekyl re- 
lated twenty little traits and tokens that showed j 


45 

! he was speaking with true knowledge of the 
I parties. Unlike Haggerstone, he rarely, if ever, 
alluded to any of those darker topics which form 
the staple of scandal. A very gentle ridicule of 
some slight eccentricity, a passing quiz of some 
peculiarity in dress, voice, or manner, was about 
the extent of Jekyl’s criticism, which on no oc- 
casion betrayed any malice. Even the oddities 
that he portrayed were usually done by some 
passing bit of mimicry of the individual in ques- 
tion. These he threw into the dialogue of his 
story, without halt or impediment, and which 
being done with great tact, great command of 
face, and a most thorough appreciation of hu- 
mor, were very amusing little talents, and con- 
tributed largely to his social success. Onslow 
laughed heartily at many of the imitations, and 
thus recognized characters that were introduced 
into a narrative, without the trouble of announc- 
ing them. 

“ You’ve heard, perhaps, the series of mishaps 
which compelled us to take refuge here,” said 
George, leading the way to what he supposed 
would induce an equal degree of communica- 
tiveness on the other side. 

“ Oh ! yes, the landlord told me of your dis- 
asters.” 

“ After all, I believe the very worst of them 
was coming to this place in such a season.” 

“It is certainly seeing it “ en papillate” said 
Jekyl, smiling, “and you perhaps are not an 
admirer of beauty unadorned.” 

“ Say, rather, of nature at her ugliest — for 
whatever it may be in summer, with foliage, 
and clear streams, flowers, smart folk riding 
and driving about, equipage, music, movement, 
and merry voices — now, it is really too dismal. 
Pray, how do you get through the day?” 

Jekyl smiled one of his quiet, equivocal smiles, 
and slightly raised his shoulders without speak- 
ing. 

“ Do you shoot ?” 

“ No,” said he. 

“ But why do I ask — there’s nothing to shoot. 
You ride then.” 

“No.” 

“Cigars will do a great deal; but confound 
it, there must be a large share of the day very 
heavy on your hands, even with a reasonable 
allowance for reading and writing.” 

“ Seldom do either !” said Jekyl, with his 
usual imperturbed manner. 

“ You havn’t surely got up a flirtation with 
some ‘ Fraulein with yellow hair?’ ” 

“ I can not lay claim to such good fortune 
I really do nothing. I have not even the usual 
English resource of a terrier to jump over my 
stick, nor was I early enough initiated into the 
mystery of brandy and water — in fact, a less 
occupied individual can not well be imagined ; 
but somehow — you’ll smile if I say — I am not 
bored.” 

“ It would be very ungenerous, then, to con- 
ceal your secret,” cried Onslow ; “ for assuredly, 
the art of killing time here, without killing one- 
self, is worth knowing.” 


46 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ The misfortune is, I can not communicate 
it ; that is, even giving me credit for possessing 
one, my skill is like that of some great medical 
practitioner, who has learnt to look on disease 
with such practiced eyes, that the appropriate 
remedy rises as it were instinctively to his mind 
— he knows not how or why — and who dies, 
without being able to transmit the knowledge 
to a successor. I have, somewhat in the same 
way, become an accomplished idler ; and with 
such success, that the dreariest day of rain that 
ever darkened the dirty windows of a village 
inn, the most scorching dog-day that ever emp- 
tied the streets of an Italian city, and sent all 
the inhabitants to their siesta, never hipped me. 
I have spent a month with perfect satisfaction 
in quarantine, and bobbed for three weeks in a 
calm at sea, with no other inconvenience than 
the moans of my fellow-passengers. There’s 
no secret in it, Mr. Onslow ; or, if there be, it 
lies in this pretty discovery, that we are always 
bored by our habit of throwing ourselves on the 
resources of somebody else, who, in his turn, 
looks out for another, and so on. Now, a man 
in a fever never dreams of cooling his hand by 
laying it on another patient’s cheek ; yet this is 
what we do. To be thoroughly bored, you must 
associate yourself with some half-dozen tired, 
weary, dyspeptic twaddles, and make up a joint- 
stock bank of your several incapacities, learn to 
growl in chorus, and you’ll be able to go home 
and practice it, as a solo.” 

“ And have you been completely alone here, 
of late?” said George, who began to feel that 
the sermon on “ennui” was not unaccompanied 
by a taste of the evil. 

“ Occasionally I’ve chatted for half-an-hour 
with two gentlemen, w T ho reside here — a Colonel 
Haggerstone — ’ ’ 

“ By-the-way, who is he ?” broke in Onslow, 
eagerly. 

“He has been traced back to Madras, but 
the most searching inquiries have failed to elicit 
any thing further.” 

“ Is he the man they called Arlington’s Col- 
onel Haggerstone ?” ) 

Jekyl nodded; but with an air that seemed 
to say, he would not enter more deeply into the 
subject. 

“ And your other companion — who is he ?” 

“Peter Dalton, of — I am ashamed to say — I 
forget where,” said Jekyl; who, at once assum- 
ing Dalton’s bloated look, in a well-feigned Irish 
accent, went on : “a descendant of as ancient 
and as honorable a familee as any in the three 
kingdoms, and if a little down in the world, 
bad luck to them that done it ! just as ready as 
ever he was, to enjoy agreeable society and the 
ganial flow of soul.” 

“ He’s the better of the two, I take it,” said 
Onslow. 

“ More interesting, certainly — just as a ruined 
chateau is a more picturesque object than a 
new police-station, or a cut-stone penitentiary. 
There’s another feature also which ought to 
give him the preference. I have seen two very 


[ pretty faces from time to time as I have passed 
the windows, and which I conjecture to belong 
to his daughters.” 

“ Have you not made their acquaintance ?'* 
asked Onslow, in some surprise. 

“ i grieve to say I have not,” sighed Jekyl, 
softly. 

“Why, the matter should not be very difficult, 
one might opine, in such a place, at such a time, 
and with — ” 

He hesitated, and Jekyl added, 

“With such a papa, you were about to say. 
Well, that is precisely the difficulty. Had my 
excellent friend Peter, been a native of any other 
country, I flatter myself I should have known 
how to make my advances; but with these dear 
Irish their very accessibility is a difficulty ol no 
common order. Assume an air of deference 
and respect, and they’ll set you down for a cold 
formalist, with whom they can have nothing in 
common. Try the opposite line, and affect the 
free-and-easy, and the chances are that you have 
a duel to fight before you know you have offended. 
I confess that I have made several small advances, 
and thrown out repeated little hints about lone- 
liness, and long evenings, and so forth ; and 
although he has concurred with me in every 
word, yet his practice has never followed his 
precept. But I don’t despair. What say you, 
if we attack the fortress as allies ? I have a 
notion we should succeed.” 

“ With all my heart. What’s your plan ?” 

“At this moment I have formed none, nor is 
there need of any. Let us go out, like the 
knight-errants of old, in search of adventures, 
and see if they will not befall us. The first 
step will be to make Dalton’s acquaintance. 
Now, he always takes his walk in bad weather 
in the great Saal below ; should he not make 
his appearance there to-day, as he has already 
absented himself for some days, I’ll call to in- 
quire after him at his own house. You’ll ac- 
company me. The rest we’ll leave to fortune.” 

Although Onslow could not see that this step 
could lead to any thing beyond a civil reply to 
a civil demand, he assented readily, and promised 
to meet his companion at four o’clock the same 
evening. As for Jekyl, he took a very different 
view of the whole transaction, for he knew that 
while to him there might be considerable diffi- 
culty in establishing any footing with the Dal- 
tons, the son of the wealthy baronet would be, 
in all likelihood, very differently looked on. In 
presenting Aim, thought he, I shall have become 
the friend of the family at once. It had often 
before been his fortune in life to have made 
valuable acquaintances in this manner ; and 
although the poor Daltons were very unlikely 
to figure in the category of profitable friends, 
they would at least afford an agreeable resource 
against the dullness of wintry evenings, and 
prevent, what he himself called, the “ demoral- 
ization” of absence from female society. Lastly, 
the scheme promised to establish a close intimacy 
between Onslow and himself; and here was a 
benefit worth all the others. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A SUSPICIOUS VISITOR. 


How far were the Daltons from suspecting 
that they were the subject of so much and such 
varied solicitude, and that, while Lady Hester 
was fancying to herself all the fashionable beau- 
ties whom Kate would eclipse in loveliness, and 
what an effect charms like hers would produce 
on society, Sir Stafford was busily concerting 
with his lawyer the means of effectually bene- 
fiting them ; and George Onslow — for want of 
better — speculated, as he smoked, on “the kind 
of people” they should prove, and wondered 
whether the scheme were worth the light trouble 
it was to cost him. Little did they know 7 of all 
this — little imagine that outside of their humble 
roof .there lived one — save “dear Frank” — 
whose thoughts included them. “ The purple 
and fine linen” category of this w T orld can not 
appreciate the force of this w r ant of sympathy ! 
They, whose slightest griefs and least afflictions 
in life are always certain of the consolations of 
friends, and the even more bland solace of a 
fashionable physician — whose w r oes are re-echoed 
by the Morning Post , and w T hose sorrow's are 
mourned in Court Journals , can not frame to 
themselves the sense of isolation which narrow 
fortune impresses. “ Poverty,” says a classical 
authority, “has no heavier evil than that it makes 
men ridiculous.” But this wound to self-love, 
deep and poignant though it be, is light in com- 
parison with the crushing sense of isolation — 
that abstraction from sympathy in which poor 
men live! 

The Daltons were seated around Hanserl’s 
bed, silently ministering to the sick man, and 
watching w 7 ith deep and anxious interest the 
labored respiration and convulsive tw r itches of his 
fever. The wild and rapid utterance of his lips, 
and the strange fancies that they syllabled, often 
exciting him to laughter, only deepened the gravi- 
ty of their countenances, and cast over the glances 
they interchanged a tinge of sadder meaning. 

“ He couldn’t have better luck,” muttered 
Dalton, sorrowfully ; “just from being a friend 
to us ! If he never saw nor heard of us, maybe 
’tis happy and healthy he’d be to-day !” 

“Nay, nay! papa,” said Nelly, gently; “this 
is to speak too gloomily ; nor is it good for us 
to throw on each fortune the burden that we 
should bear patiently.” 

“ Don’t tell me there is not such a thing as 
luck !” replied Dalton, in a tone of irritation. 
“I know well whether there is or no! For 
five-and-thirty years, whatever I put my hand 
to in life tnrned out badly ! It was the same 
whether I did any thing on the spur of the 
moment, or thought over it for weeks. If I 
washed a thing, that w 7 as reason enough for it to 
come out wrong !” 

“ And even w 7 ere it all as you fancy, papa, 


dearest,” said Nelly as she fondly drew hei arm 
round him, “ is it nothing that these reverses 
have found you strong of heart, and high of 
courage, to bear them ? Over and over again 
have you told me, that the great charm of field 
sports lay in the sense of fatigue bravely endured, 
and peril boldly confronted, that, devoid of these, 
they w r ere unworthy of men? Is there not a 
greater glory, then, in stemming the tide of 
adverse fortune ; and is it not a higher victory 
that carries you triumphant over the real trials 
of life — kind of heart, trustful, and generous, as 
in the best days of your prosperity, and w T ith a 
more gentle and forebearing spirit than prosper- 
ity ever taught.” 

“ That’s nothing against w 7 hat I was sayifig,” 
said Dalton, but w T ith a more subdued face. 
“ There’s poor little Hans, and till a couple of 
days ago he never knew what it was to be unlucky. 
As he told us himself, his life w r as a faix-y tale.” 

“True,” interposed Nelly; “and happy as it 
was, and blameless, and guileless, he who led it, 
mark how many a gloomy thought — what dark 
distressing fancies hover round his brain, and 
shadow his sick bed ! No, no ! the sorrows of 
this world are more equally distributed than we 
think for, and he w 7 ho seems to have fewest is 
oftentimes but he w 7 ho best conceals them !” 

Her voice shook, and became weaker as she 
spoke ; and the last few words were barely 
audible. Dalton did not notice her emotion; 
but Kate’s looks were bent upon her with an 
expression of fond and affectionate meaning. 

“There’s somebody at the door,” whispered 
Dalton; “see who it is, Kate.” 

Kate arose, and, opening the door softly, beheld 
old Andy. His shriveled features and lustreless 
eyes appearing in a state of unusual excitement. 

“ What’s the matter, Andy ? what is it you 
w T ant?” said she. 

“Is the master here? where’s the master?” 

“ He’s here ; w T hat do you w T ant with him ?” 
rejoined she. 

“ I want himself,” said he, as w 7 ith his palsied 
hand he motioned to Dalton to come out. 

“What is it, you old fool?” said Dalton, im- 
patiently, as he arose and followed him outsido 
of the room. 

“There’s one of them again!” said Andy, 
putting His mouth to Dalton’s ear, and whisper- 
ing in deep confidence. 

“ One of what ? one of whom ?” 

“ He’s up stairs,” muttered Andy. 

“ Who’s up stairs? who is he?” cried Dalton, 
angrily. 

“ Didn’t I know him the minit I seen him ! 
Ayeh ! Ould as I am, my eyes isn’t that dim yet.” 

“ God give me patience with you !” said 
Dalton ; and, to judge from his face, he was not 


48 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


entreating a vain blessing. “ Tell me, I say, 
what do you mean, or who is it is up stairs?” 

Andy put his lips once more to the other’s ear, 
and whispered, “ An attorney !” 

“ An attorney !” echoed Dalton. 

“Iss!” said Andy, with a significant nod. 

“And how do you know he’s an attorney?” 

“ I seen him J” replied the other, with a grin ; 
“and I locked the door on him.” 

“ What for ?” 

“ What for ! what for, is it ? Oh ! murther, 
murther !” whined the old creature, who in this 
unhappy question thought he read the evidence 
of his poor master’s wreck of intellect. It was, 
indeed, no slight shock to him to hear that Peter 
Dalton had grown callous to danger, and could 
listen to the terrible word he had uttered without 
a sign of emotion. 

“ I seen the papers with a red string round ’em,” 
said Andy, as though by this incidental trait he 
might be able to realize all the menaced danger. 

“ Sirrah, ye’re an old fool !” said Dalton, an- 
grily, and jerking the key from his trembling fin- 
gers, he pushed past him, and ascended the stairs. 

If Dalton’s impatience had been excited by the 
old man’s absurd terrors and foolish warnings, 
his own heart was not devoid of a certain vague 
dread, as he slowly wended his way upward. 
It was true he did not partake of old Andy’s fear 
of the dread official of the law. Andy, who for- 
getting time and place, not knowing that they 
were in another land, where the king’s writ 
never ran, saw in the terrible apparition the 
shadows of coming misfortune. Every calamity 
of his master’s house had been heralded by such 
a visit, and he could as soon have disconnected 
the banshee with a certain death, as the sight of 
an attorney w T ith an approaching disaster. 

It is true, Dalton did not go this far ; but still 
old impressions were not so easily effaced. And 
as the liberated captive is said to tremble at the 
clanking of a chain, so his heart responded to the 
fear that memory called up of past troubles and 
misfortunes. 

“ What can he want with me now?” muttered 
he, as he stopped to take breath. “They’ve left 
me nothing but life ; and they can’t take that. 
It’s not that I’d care a great deal if they did ! 
Maybe, it’s more bother about them titles ; but 
I’ll not trouble my head about them. I sold the 
land, and I spent the money ; ay, and what’s 
more, I spent it at home among my own people, 
like a gentleman ! and if I’m an absentee, it’s 
not my fault. I suppose he couldn’t arrest me I” 
said he, after a pause. “ But God knows ! 
they’re making new laws every day, and it’s 
hard to say, if they’ll let a man have peace or 
ease in any quarter of the world before long. 
Well, well ! there’s no use guessing. I have 
nothing to sell — nothing to lose ; I suppose they 
don’t make it hanging matter, even for an Irish- 
man, to live a trifle too fast.” And with this 
piece of re-assuring comfort, he pulled up his 
cravat, threw back the breast of his coat, and 
prepared to confront the enemy bravely. 

Although Dalton made some noiso in unlock- 


ing the door, and not less in crossing the littlo 
passage that led to the sitting-room, his entrance 
was unperceived by the stranger, who was 
busily engaged in examining a half-finished 
group by Nelly. It represented an old soldier, 
whose eyes were covered by a bandage, seated 
beside a well, while a little drummer-boy read 
to him the bulletin of a great victory. She had 
destined the work for a present to Frank, and 
had put forth all her genius in its composition. 
The glowing enthusiasm of the blind veteran — * 
his half-opened lips — his attitude of eagerness 
as he drank in the words, were finely contrasted 
with the childlike simplicity of the boy, more 
intent as it seemed in spelling out the lines than 
following the signification. 

If the stranger was not a finished connoisseur, 
he was certainly not ignorant of the art, and was 
deep in its contemplation when Dalton accosted 
him : 

“I beg pardon — Mr. Dalton, I presume — 
really this clever composition has made me for- 
get myself, totally. May I ask is it the work 
of a native artist ?” 

“It was done in this place, sir,” replied Dal- 
ton, whose pride in his daughter’s skill was over- 
laid by a less worthy feeling — shame, that a 
Dalton should condescend to such an occupation. 

“ I have seen very inferior productions highly 
prized and praised, and if I am not indiscreet — ” 

“To prevent any risk of that kind,” observed 
Dalton, interrupting him, “I’ll take the liberty 
of asking your name, and the object of this 
visit.” 

“Prichard, sir; of the firm of Prichard and 
Harding, solicitors, Lincoln’s Inn-fields,” replied 
the other, whose voice and manner at once 
assumed a business-like tone. 

“I never heard the names before,” said Dalton, 
motioning to a chair. The stranger seated him- 
self, and, placing a large roll of papers before 
him on the table, proceeded to untie and arrange 
them most methodically, and with the air of a 
man too deeply impressed with the importance 
of his occupation to waste a thought upon the 
astonishment of a bystander. 

“ Prichard and Harding are mighty cool kind 
of gentlemen,” thought Dalton, as he took his 
seat at the opposite side of the table, trying, but 
not with any remarkable success, to look as 
much at ease as his visitor. 

“ Copy of deed — draft of instructions — bill of 
sale of stock — no, here it is ! This is what we 
want,” muttered Prichard, half aloud. “I be- 
lieve that letter, sir, is in your handwriting?” 

Dalton put on his spectacles and looked at 
the document for a few seconds, during which 
his countenance gradually appeared to light up 
with an expression of joyful meaning, for his eye 
glistened, and a red flush suffused his cheek. 

“ It is, sir — that’s mine, every word of it; and 
what’s more, I’m as ready to stand to it to-day, 
as the hour I wrote it.” 

Mr. Prichard, scarcely noticing the reply, 
was again deep in his researches ; but the object 
of them must be reserved for another chapter. 




* • ’ s* . • 1 '>* f 

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> . * K* i >Jt ' >4 , .. * ' , X ’ . . A*|| « 


v 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AN EMBARRASSING QUESTION. 


How very seldom it is that a man looks at a 
letter he has written some twenty years or so 
before, and peruses it with any degree of satis- 
faction. No matter how pleasurable the theme, 
or how full of interest at the time, years have 
made such changes in circumstances, have so 
altered his relations with the world — dispelled 
illusions here, created new prospects there — 
that the chances are he can feel nothing but 
astonishment for what once were his opinions, 
and a strange sense of misgiving that he ever 
could have so expressed himself. 

Rare as this pleasure is, we left Mr. Dalton 
in the fullest enjoyment of it, in our last chap- 
ter, and, as he read and re-read his autograph, 
every feature of his face showed the enjoyment 
it yielded him. 

“ My own writing, sure enough ! I wish I 
never put my hand to paper in a worse cause ! 
Isn’t it strange,” he muttered, “how a man’s 
heart will outlive his fingers ? I couldn’t write 
now as well as I used then, but I can feel just 
the same. There’s the very words I said.” 
And with this he read, half aloud, from the 
paper : “ 1 But if you’ll consent to send lawyers 
and attorneys to the devil, and let the matter be 
settled between us, like two gentlemen, Peter 
Dalton will meet you, when, where, and how 
you like, and take the satisfaction as a full re- 
lease of every claim and demand he makes on 
you.’ Just so ! and a fairer offer never was 
made, but I grieve to say it wasn’t met in the 
same spirit.” 

“ When you wrote that letter, Mr. Dalton,” 
said Pritchard, not looking up from the papers 
before him, “you were doubtless suffering under 
the impression of a wrong, at the hands of Sir 
Stafford Onslow.” 

“Faith, I believe you. The loss of a fine 
estate wasn’t a trifle, whatever you may think 
it!” 

“ The question ought rather to be, what 
rifrht had you to attribute that loss to him” 
°“What right, is it? All the right in the 
world. Who got the property? Answer me 
that. Wasn’t it he came in as a sole legatee? 
But what am I talking about ? Sure the thing 
is done and ended, and what more does he 
want ?” 

“I’m just coming to that very point, sir,” 
said Prichard. “ Sir Stafford’s attention having 
been accidentally called to this transaction, he 
perceives that he has unwittingly done you a 
D 


great injustice, and that there is one matter, at 
least, on which he is bound, even for his own 
satisfaction — ” 

“Satisfaction, is it?” broke in Dalton, catch- 
ing at the only word that struck his ear with a 
distinct signification. “ Better late than never, 
and it’s proud I am to oblige him. Not but 
there’s people would tell you the time’s gone by, 
and all that sort of thing, but them was never 
my sentiments. ‘ Never a bad time for a good 
deed,’ my poor father used to say, and you may 
tell him that I’ll think the better of his country- 
men to the day of my death for what he’s going 
to do now.” 

Prichard laid down the paper he was read- 
ing, and stared at the speaker in mute amaze- 
ment. 

“ You’re his friend. I perceive,” said Dalton. 

“ Sir Stafford is kind enough to consider mo 
in that light.” 

“ Faith ! the kindness is all the other way,’* 
rejoined Dalton, laughing ; “ at least, in this 
country, for the seconds are just as guilty hero 
as the principals, and have no fun for their 
money. But, sure, we can cross over to Lan- 
dau ; they tell me it’s Barbaria there, over tho 
Rhine.” 

“Bavaria, perhaps?” interposed the other. 

“ Yes, that’s what I said. We can be over 
the frontier in two hours. There’s every con- 
veniency in life,” said he, rubbing his hands irv 
high glee. 

“ Our business, I trust, sir, can be all arranged 
here, and without much delay, either.” 

“Just as you like; I’m not fond of moving 
since my knee was bad, and I’m agreeable to 
any thing.” 

“You seem to contemplate a hostile meeting, 
sir, if I understand you aright,” said Prichard, 
slowly; “but if you had been kind enough to 
hear me out, you’d have seen that nothing was 
further from my friend’s thoughts or my own.” 

“ Oh, murther !” groaned Dalton, as he sank 
down into a chair. 

“ We never entertained any such intention.’* 

“ No duel?” 

“ Nothing of the kind.” 

“ Sure, I heard you say satisfaction ! I’ll 
take my oath you said satisfaction.” 

“ I hope sincerely, sir, that tho word may 
bear a peaceful signification.” 

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” cried Dalton, as, 
clasping his hands on his knees, he sat, a per- 


50 


THE DALTONS : OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


feet type of disappointed hope, and totally inat- 
tentive to a very eloquent explanation that 
Prichard was pouring forth. “You see, now, 
sir, I trust,” cried the latter, triumphantly, 
“ that if my friend’s intentions are not precisely 
what you looked for, that they are not less in- 
spired by an anxious desire to cultivate your 
friendship and obtain your good opinion.” 

“ I wasn’t listening to a word you were say- 
ing,” said Dalton, with a sincerity that would 
have made many men smile ; but Mr. Prichard 
never laughed, or only when the joke was ut- 
tered by a silk gown, or the initiative given by 
the bench itself. 

“I was endeavoring, sir, to convey,” said he 
again, and with infinite patience, “that by a 
clause of the late Mr. Godfrey’s will, the sug- 
gestion was made to the effect that, if Sir Staf- 
ford Onslow should deem it fitting and suitable, 
the testator would not be averse to an annuity 
of from a hundred and fifty to two hundred 
pounds per annum being settled on Mr. Peter 
Dalton for the term of his life. This clause 
has now been brought under Sir Stafford’s notice 
for the first time, as he never, in fact, saw the 
will before. The document was lodged in our 
hands ; and as certain proceedings, of which the 
letter you have just acknowledged forms a part, 
at that period placed you in a peculiar position 
of hostility to Sir Stafford, we, as his legal ad- 
visers, did not take any remarkable pains to im- 
press this recommendation on his memory.” 

“ Go on ; I’m listening tb you,” said Dalton. 

1 “ Well, sir,' Sir Stafford is now desirous of com- 

plying with this injunction, the terms of which 
he regards as more obligatory upon him than his 
legal friends would be willing to substantiate. 
In fact, he makes the matter a question of feel- 
ing, and not of law ; and this, of course, is a 
point wherein we have no right to interpose an 
opinion. Something like ten years have elapsed 
since Mr. Godfrey’s death, and taking the sum 
at two hundred pounds, with interest at five per 
cent., a balance of above three thousand two 
hundred will now be at your disposal, together 
with the annuity on your life ; and to arrange 
the payment of these moneys, and take measures 
for their future disbursements, I have the honor 
to present myself before you. As for these 
letters, they are your own; and Sir Stafford, in 
restoring them, desires to efface all memory of 
the transaction they referred to, and to assure 
you that, when circumstances enable him to 
meet you, it may be on terms of perfect cor- 
diality and friendship.” 

“Upon my soul and conscience, I don’t under- 
stand a word of it at all !” said Dalton, whose 
bewildered looks gave a perfect concurrence to 
the speech. “ Is it that I have a right to all 
the money ?” 

“ Exactly, sir ; Sir Stafford feels that he is 
simply carrying out the wishes of your relative, 
Mr. Godfrey — ” 

“ But this has nothing to do with the little 
difference between Sir Stafford and myself ? I 
mean, it leaves us just where we were before.” 


“ Sir Stafford hopes that henceforth a better 
understanding will subsist between you and 
himself; and that you, seeing how blameless 
he has been in the whole history of your losses, 
will receive this act as an evidence of his desire 
to cultivate your friendship.” 

“ And this two hundred a year ?” 

“Is Mr. Godfrey’s bequest.” 

“ But depending on Sir Stafford to pay or not, 
as he likes.” 

“ I have already told you, sir, that he con- 
ceives he has no option in the matter ; and that 
the mere expression of a desire on Mr. God- 
frey’s part becomes to him a direct injunction.” 

“Faith! he was mighty long in finding it 
out, then,” said Dalton, laughing. 

“I believe I have explained myself on that 
head,” replied Prichard; “but I am quite ready 
to go over the matter again.” 

“ God forbid ! my head is ‘moidered’ enough 
already, not to make it worse ! Explanations, 
as they call them, always puzzle me more : but 
if you’d go over the subject to my daughter 
Nelly, her brain is as clear as the Lord Chan- 
cellor’s. I’ll just call her up here, for, to tell 
you the truth, I never see my way right in any 
thing till Nelly makes it out for me.” 

Mr. Prichard was probably not grieved at 
the prospect of a more intelligent listener, and 
readily assented to the proposition ; in further- 
ance of w”hich Dalton left the room to seek his 
daughter. 

On descending to the little chamber where 
he had left the two girls, in waiting beside the 
dwarf’s sick-bed, he now discovered that they 
had gone, and that old Andy had replaced 
them ; a change which, to judge from Hanserl’s 
excited looks and wild utterance, was not b y 
any means to his taste. 

“Was machst du hier?” cried he, sternly, to 
the old man. 

“Whisht! alannah! Take asleep, acushla!” 
whined old Andy, as, under the delusion that it 
was beside an infant his watch was established, 
he tried to rock the settle-bed like a cradle, and 
then croned away in a cracked voice one of his 
own native ditties : 

“I saw a man weeping and makin’ sad moan. 

He was crying and grievin’, 

For he knew their deceivin’, 

An’ rockin’ a cradle for a child not his own.” 

“Was fur katzen jammer ! What for cats' 
music mak’st thou there?” 

“Where’s the girls, Andy?” whispered Dal- 
ton in the old man’s ear. 

“ They’re gone,” muttered he. 

“ Gone where ? — where did they go ?” 

“Fort mit ihm. Away with him. Leave 
him not stay. Mein head is heavy and mein 
brain turn round!” screamed Hanserl. 

“ Will ye tell me where they’re gone, I say?” 
cried Dalton, angrily. 

“ Hushoo ! husho !” sung out the old man, as 
he fancied he was composing his charge to sleep • 
and then made signs to Dalton to be still, and not 
awaken him. 


51 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


With an angry muttering, Dalton turned away 
and left the chamber, totally regardless of Han- 
serPs entreaties to take Andy along with him. 

“ You’re just good company for each other !” 
said he, sulkily, to himself. “ But where’s these 
girls, I wonder?” 

“ Oh, papa, I have found you at last!” cried 
Kate, as, bounding down the stairs half-a-dozen 
steps at a time, she threw her arm round him. 
“ She’s here ! she’s up-stairs with us ; and so 
delightful, and so kind, and so beautiful. I 
never believed any one could be so charming.” 

“ And who is she, when she’s at home ?” said 
.Dalton, half sulkily. 

“ Lady Hester, of course, papa. She came 
while we were sitting with Hanserl — came quite 
alone to see him and us ; and when she had talk- 
ed to him for a while, so kindly and so sweetly, 
about his wound, and his fever, and his home in 
the Tyrol, and his mother, and every thing, she 
turned to Nelly, and said, ‘ Now, my dears, for 
a little conversation with yourselves. Where 
shall we go to be quite alone and uninterrupted ?’ 
We didn’t know what to say, papa ; for we knew 
that you and the strange gentleman were busy 
in the sitting-room, and while I was thinking 
what excuse to make, Nelly told her that our 
only room was occupied. ‘ Oh, I don’t care 
for that in the least,’ said she ; ‘let us shut our- 
selves up in your dressing-room.’ Our dress- 
ing-room ! I could have laughed and cried at 
the same moment as she said it ; but Nelly said 
that we had none, and invited her up-stairs to 
her bedroom ; and there she is now, papa, sit- 
ting on the little bed, and making Nelly tell her 
every thing about who we are, and whence 
we came, and how we chanced to be living 
here.” 

“I wonder Nelly hadn’t more sense,” said 
Dalton, angrily; “not as much as a curtain 
on the bed, nor a bit of carpet on the floor. 
What’ll she think of us all !” 

“ Oh, papa, you’re quite mistaken ; she called 
H a dear little snuggery ; said she envied Nelly 
so much that lovely view over Eberstein and the 
Schloss, and said what would she not give to 
lead our happy and peaceful life, away from 
that great world she despises so heartily. How 
sad to think her duties tie her down to a servi- 
tude so distasteful and repulsive !” 

“ Isn’t my lady the least taste in life of a 
humbug, Kitty ?” whispered Dalton, as his eyes 
twinkled with malicious drollery. 

“ Papa, papa ! you can not mean — ” 

“No harm, if she is, darling. I’m sure the 
pleasantest, ay, and some of the worthiest 
people ever I knew, were humbugs; that is, 
they were always doing their best to be agree- 
able to the company; and if they strained their 
consciences a bit, small blame to them for that 
same.” 

“ Lady Hester is far above such arts, papa ; 
but you shall judge for yourself. Come in, now, 
for she is so anxious to know you.” 

Kate, as she spoke, had opened the door of 
the little bedroom, and drawing her arm within 


her father’s gently led him forward, to where 
Lady Hester was seated upon the humble 
settle. 

“ It’s a nice place they showed you into, my 
lady,” said Dalton, after the ceremony of in- 
troduction was gone through ; “ and there was 
the drawing-room, or the library, and the break- 
fast-parlor, all ready to receive you.” 

“We heard that you were engaged with a 
gentleman on business, papa.” 

“Well, and if I was, Nelly, transacting a 
small matter about my estates in Ireland, sure 
it was in my own study we were.” 

“ I must be permitted to say that I am very 
grateful for any accident which has given me 
the privilege of an intimate with my dear young 
friends,” said Lady Hester in her very sweetest 
of manners ; “ and as to the dear little room it- 
self, it is positively charming.” 

“ I wish you’d seen Mount Dalton, my lady. 
There’s a window, and it isn’t bigger than that 
there, and you can see seven baronies out of it 
and a part of three counties — Killikelly’s flour- 
mills, and the town of Drumcoolaghan in the 
distance ; not to speak of the Shannon winding 
for miles through as elegant a bog as ever you 
set eyes upon.” 

“Indeed !” smiled her ladyship, with a glance 
of deep interest. 

“ ’Tis truth I’m telling you, my lady,” con- 
tinued he ; “ and, what’s more, ’twas our own, 
every stick and stone of it. From Crishnamuck 
to Ballymodereena on one side, and from the 
chapel at Dooras down to Drumcoolaghan, ’twas 
the Dalton estate.” 

“ What a princely territory !” 

“And why not? Weren’t they kings once, 
or the same as kings. Didn’t my grandfather, 
Pearce, hold a court for life and death in his 
own parlor? Them was the happy, and the 
good times too,” sighed he, plaintively. 

“ But I trust your late news from Ireland is 
favorable?” 

“ Ah ! there isn’t much to boast about. The 
old families is dying out fast, nd the properties 
changing hands. A set of English rogues and 
banker-fellows, that made their money in dirty 
lanes and alleys — ” 

A sort of imploring, beseeching anxiety from 
his daughter Kate here brought Dalton to a dead 
stop, and he pulled up as suddenly as if on the 
brink of a precipice. 

“ Pray, go on, Mr. Dalton,” said Lady Hester, 
with a winning smile ; “you can not think how 
much you have interested me. You are aware 
that we really know nothing about poor dear 
Ireland; and I am so delighted to learn from 
one so competent to teach.” 

“ I didn’t mean any offense, my lady,” stam- 
mered out Dalton, in confusion. “ There's good 
and bad every where ; but I wish to the Lord 
the cotton-spinners wouldn’t come among us, 
and their steam-engines, and their black chim- 
neys, and their big factories ; and they say 
we’re not far from that now.” 

A gentle tap at the door, which commimi- 


THE DALTONS ; OK, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


52 

cated with the sitting-room, was heard at this 
moment, and Dalton exclaimed, 

“ Come in !” but, not suffering the interrup- 
tion to stop the current of his discourse, he was 
about to resume, when Mr. Prichard’s well-pow- 
dered head appeared at the door. 

“ I began to suspect you had forgotten me, 
Mr. Dalton,” said he ; but suddenly catching 
a glimpse of Lady Hester, he stopped to ask 
pardon for the intrusion. 

“ Faith, and I just did,” said Dalton, laugh- 
ing; “couldn’t you contrive to step in, in the 
morning, and we’ll talk that little matter over 
again.” 

“ Yes, Prichard ; pray don’t interrupt us now,” 
said Lady Hester, in a tone of half-peevishness. 

“ I can not possibly spare you, Mr. Dalton, at 
this moment ;” and the man of law withdrew, 
with a most respectful obeisance. 

“ You’ll forgive me, won't you ?” said she, 
addressing Dalton, with a glance, whose bland- 
ishment had often succeeded in a more difficult 
case. 

“ And now, papa, we’ll adjourn to the draw- 
ing-room,” said Kate, who somehow continued 
to notice a hundred deficiences in the furniture 
of a little chamber she had often before deemed 
perfect. 

Dalton accordingly offered his arm to Lady 
Hester, who accepted the courtesy in all form, 
and the little party moved into the sitting-room ; 
Nelly following, with an expression of sadness 
in her pale features, very unlike the triumphant 
glances of her father and sister. 

“ I’m certain of your pardon, Mr. Dalton, and 
of yours , too, my dear child,” said Lady Hester, 
turning toward Kate, as she seated herself on 
the stiff old sofa, “when I avow that I have 
come here determined to pass the evening with 
you. I’m not quite so sure that my dear Miss 
Dalton’s forgiveness will be so readily accorded 
me. I see that she already looks gravely at the 
prospect of listening to my fiddle-faddle instead 
of following out her own charming fancies.” 

“ Oh ! how you wrong me, my lady,” broke 
in Nelly, eagerly. “ If it were not for my fears 
of our unfitness — our inability,” she stammered, 
in confusion and shame ; and old Dalton broke in, 

“ Don’t mind her, my lady ; we’re as well 
used to company as any family in the country; 
but you see, we don’t generally mix with the 
people one meets abroad ; and why should we ? 
God knows who they are. There was chaps 
here last summer at the tables you wouldn’t let 
into the servants’ hall. There was one I seen 
myself, with an elegant pair of horses, as nice 
steppers as ever you looked at, and a groom 
behind with a leather-strap round him, and a — ” 
here Mr. Dalton performed a pantomime, by 
extending the fingers of his open hand at the 
side of his head, to represent a cockade — “what 
d’ye call it — in his hat; and who was he, did 
you think ? ‘ Billy Rogers,’ of Muck ; his father 
weis in the canal — ” 

“ In the canal !” exclaimed Lady Hester, in 
affright. 


“Yes, mv lady; in the Grand Canal — an 
inspector at forty pounds a year — the devil a 
farthin’ more ; and if you seen the son here, 
with two pins in his cravat, and a gold chain 
twisting and turning over his waistcoat, with 
his hat on one side, and yellow gloves, new 
every morning, throwing down the ‘ Naps’ at 
that thieving game they call c Red and Black,’ 
you’d say he was the Duke of Leinster !” 

“Was he so like his Grace?” asked Lady 
Hester, with a delightful simplicity. 

“ No ; but grander !” replied Dalton, with a 
wave of his hand. 

“ It is really, as you remark, very true,” re- 
sumed her ladyship ; “it is quite impossible to 
venture upon an acquaintance out of England ; 
and I cordially concur in the caution you prac- 
tice.” 

“So I’m always telling the girls — ‘better no 
company than trumpery !’ not that I don’t like a 
bit of sociality as well as ever I did — a snug 
little party of one’s own — people whose fathers 
and mothers had names — the real old stock of 
the land. But to be taking up with every chance 
rapscallion you meet on the cross-roads — to be 
hand and glove with this, that, and the other, 
them never was my sentiments.” 

It is but justice to confess there w T as less of 
hypocrisy in the bland smile Lady Hester re- 
turned to this speech than might be suspected ; 
for, what between the rapidity of Dalton’s utter- 
ance, and the peculiar accentuation he gave to 
certain words, she did not really comprehend 
one syllable of what he said. Meanwhile, the 
two girls sat silent and motionless. Nelly, in 
all the suffering of shame at the absurdity of 
her father’s tone — the vulgarity of an assumption 
she had fondly hoped years of poverty might 
have tamed down, if not obliterated ; Kate, in 
mute admiration of their lovely visitor, of whose 
graces she never wearied. Nor did Lady Hes- 
ter make any effort to include them in the con- 
versation ; she had come out expressly for one 
sole object — to captivate Mr. Dalton ; and she 
would suffer nothing to interfere with her pro- 
ject. To this end, she heard his long and tire- 
some monologues about Irish misery and distress, 
narrated with an adherence to minute and local 
details, that made the whole incomprehensible ; 
she listened to him with well-feigned interest, in 
his narratives of the Daltons of times long past 
— of their riotous and extravagant living, their 
lawlessness, and their daring ; nor did she per- 
mit her attention to flag while he recounted 
scenes and passages of domestic annals, that 
might almost have filled a page of savage 
history. 

“ How sorry you must have felt to leave 3 
country so dear by all its associations and habits,” 
sighed she, as he finished a narrative of more 
than ordinary horrors. 

“Ain’t I breaking my heart over it? Ain’t I 
fretting myself to mere skin and bone?” said 
he, with a glance of condolence over his portly 
figure. “ But what could I do ? I was forced 
to come out here for the education of the chil- 


THE DALTONS 5 OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


dren — bother it — for education ! but it ruins 
every body nowadays. When I was a boy, 
reading and writing, with a trifle of figures, 
was enough for any one. If you could tell what 
twenty bullocks cost, at two pounds four and 
sixpence a beast, and what was the price of a 
score of hoggets, at fifteen shillings a head, and 
wrote your name and address in a good round 
hand; ’twas seldom you needed more ; but now 
you have to learn every thing — ay, sorrow bit, 
but it’s learning the way to do what every one 
knows by nature — riding — dancing — no, but 
even walking, I'm told, they teach, too ! Then 
there’s French, you must learn, for talking ! and 
Italian to sing ! and German — upon my soul, 

I believe it’s to snore in ! and what with music, 
dancing and drawing, every body is brought up 
like a play-actor.” 

“ There is, as you remark, far too much dis- 
play in modern education, Mr. Dalton ; but you 
would seem fortunate enough to have avoided 
the error. A young lady whose genius can 
accomplish such a work as this — ” 

“ ’Tis one of Nelly’s, sure enough,” said 
he, looking at the group to which she pointed, 
but feeling even more shame than pride in the 
avowal. 

The sound of voices — a very unusual noise — 
from the door without, now broke in upon the 
conversation, and Andy’s cracked treble could 
be distinctly heard in loud altercation. 

“Nelly! Kitty! I say,” cried Dalton, “see 
what’s the matter with that old devil. There’s 
something come over him to-day, I think, 
for he won’t be quiet for two minutes to- 
gether.” 

Kate accordingly hastened to discover the 
cause of a tumult in which now the sound of 
laughter mingled. 

As we, however, enjoy the prerogative of 
knowing the facts before they could reach her, 
we may as well inform the reader that Andy, 
whose intelligence seemed to have been pre- 
ternaturally awakened by the sight of an attor- 
ney, had been struck by seeing two strangers 
enter the house-door and leisurely ascend the 
stairs. At such a moment, and with his weak 
brain filled with its latest impression, the old 
man at once set them down as bailiffs come to 
arrest his master. He hobbled after them, 
therefore, as well as he could, and just reached 
the landing as Mr. Jekyl, with his friend Onslow, 
had arrived at the door. 

“ Mr. Dalton lives here, I believe,” said 
Jekyl. 

“ Anan,” muttered Andy, who, although he 
heard the question, affected not to have done so, 
and made this an excuse for inserting himself 
between them and the door. 

“ I was asking if Mr. Dalton lived here ?” 
cried Jekyl louder, and staring with some aston- 
ishment at the old fellow’s manoeuvre. 

“ Who said he did, eh ?” said Andy, with an 
effort at fierceness. 

“ Perhaps it’s on the lower story ?” asked 
Onslow. 


53 

“ Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t, then 1” 
was the answer. 

“We wish to see him, my good man,” said 
Jekyl; “ or at least, to send a message to him.” 

“ Sure! I know well enough what ye want,” 
said Andy, with a wave of his hand. “ ’Tisn’t 
the first of yer like I seen !” 

“ And what may that be,” asked Onslow, not 
a little amused by the blended silliness and 
shrewdness of the old man’s face. 

“Ayeh! I know yez well,” rejoined he, 
shaking his head. “ Be off, then, and don’t 
provoke the house ! Away wid yez, before the 
servants sees ye.” 

“ This is a rare fellow,” said Onslow, who, 
less interested than his companion about the 
visit, was quite satisfied to amuse himself with 
old Andy. “ So you’ll not even permit us to 
send our respects, and ask how your master 
is?” 

“ I’m certain you’ll be more reasonable,” 
simpered Jekyl, as he drew a very weighty-look- 
ing purse from his pocket, and, with a consider- 
able degree of ostentation, seemed preparing to 
open it. 

The notion of bribery, and in such a cause, 
was too much for Andy’s feelings; and, with a 
sudden jerk of his hand, he dashed the purse 
out of Jekyl’ s fingers, and scattered the contents 
all over the landing and stairs. “ Ha, ha !” 
cried he, wildly, “ ’Tis only ha’pence he has 
after all !” And the taunt was so far true that 
the ground was strewn with kreutzers and other 
copper coins of the very smallest value. 

As for Onslow, the scene was too ludicrous 
for him any longer to restrain his laughter; 
and although Jekyl laughed too, and seemed to 
relish the absurdity of his mistake, as he called 
it, having put in his pocket a collection of rare 
and curious coins, his cheek, as he bent to gath- 
er them up, was suffused with a deeper flush 
than the mere act of stooping should occasion. 
It was precisely at this moment that Kate Dal- 
ton made her appearance. 

“What is the matter, Andy?” asked she, 
turning to the old man, who appeared, by his 
air and attitude, as if determined to guard the 
doorway. 

“ Two spalpeens that want to take the mas- 
ter ; that’s what it is,” said he in a voice of 
passion. 

“ Your excellent old servant has much mis- 
taken us, Miss Dalton,” said Jekyl, with his 
most deferential of manners. “ My friend, Cap- 
tain Onslow” — here he moved his hand toward 
George, who bowed — “ and myself having plan- 
ned a day’s shooting in the ‘Moorg,’ have come 
to request the pleasure of Mr. Dalton’s com- 
pany.” 

“ Oh, the thievin’ villains !” muttered Andy, 
“ that’s the way they’ll catch him.” 

Meanwhile Kate, having promised to convey 
their polite invitation, expressed her fears that 
her father’s health might be unequal to the ex- 
ertion. Jekyl immediately took issue upon tho 
point, and hoped, and wondered, and fancied. 


54 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


and “ flattered himself” so much, that Kate at 
last discovered she had been drawn into a little 
discussion, when she simply meant to have re- 
turned a brief answer ; and while she was hes- 
itating how to put an end to an interview that 
had already lasted too long, Dalton himself ap- 
peared. 

“ Is it with me these gentlemen have their 
business ?” said he, angrily, while he rudely 
resisted all Andy’s endeavors to hold him 
back. 

“ Oh, my dear Mr. Dalton,” cried Jekyl, 
warmly, “it is such a pleasure to see you quite 
restored to health again ! Here we are — Cap- 
tain Onslow, Mr. Dalton — thinking of a little 
excursion after the woodcocks down the Moorg 
Thai ; and I have been indulging the hope that 
you’ll come along with us.” 

The very hint of an attention, the merest 
suggestion that bordered on a civility, struck a 
chord in old Dalton’s nature that moved all his 
sympathies. It was at once a recognition of 
himself and his ancestry for generations back ; 
it was a rehabilitation of all the Daltons of Mount 
Dalton for centuries past ; and as he extended 
a hand to each, and invited them to walk in, he 
half felt himself at home again, doing the honors 
of his house, and extending those hospitalities 
that had brought him to beggary. 

“ Are you serious about the shooting party?” 
whispered Onslow to Jekyl, as he walked for- 
ward. 

“ Of course not. It’s only a ‘ Grecian horse,’ 
to get inside the citadel.” 

“ My daughter, Miss Dalton ; Mr. Jekyl — 
Miss Kate Dalton. Your friend’s name, I believe, 
is — ” 

“ Captain Onslow.” 

Lady Hester started at the name, and, rising, 
at once said, 

“ Oh, George ! I must introduce you to my 
fair friends. Miss Dalton, this gentleman calls 
me ‘ mamma or, at least, if he does not, it is 
from politeness. Captain Onslow — Mr. Dalton. 
Now, by what fortunate event came you here?” 

“ Ought I not to ask the same question of 
your ladyship?” said George, archly. 

“ If you like ; only that, as I asked first — ” 

“ You shall be answered first. Lady Hester 
Onslow, allow me to present Mr. Albert Jekyl.” 

“ Oh, indeed !” drawled out Lady Hester, as, 
with her very coldest bow, she surveyed Mr. 
Jekyl through her glass, and then turned away 
to finish her conversation with Ellen. 

Jekyl was not the man to feel a slight repulse 
as a defeat ; but, at the same time, saw that 
the present was not the moment to risk an en- 
gagement. He saw, besides, that, by engaging 
Dalton in conversation, he should leave Lady 
Hester and Onslow at liberty to converse with 
the two sisters, and, by this act of generosity, 
entitle himself to gratitude on all sides. And, 
after all, among the smaller martyrdoms of this 
life, what self-sacrifice exceeds his who, out of 
pure philanthropy, devotes himself to the “bore” 
of the party. Honor to him who can lead the 


forlorn hope of this stronghold of weariness 
Great be his praises who can turn from the 
seductive smiles of beauty, and the soft voices 
of youth, and only give eye and ear to the 
tiresome and uninteresting. High among the 
achievements of unobtrusive heroism should this 
claim rank ; and if you doubt it, my dear reader, 
if you feel disposed to hold cheaply such darings, 
try it — try even for once. Take your place be- 
side that deaf old lady in the light auburn wig, 
or draw your chair near to that elderly gentle- 
man, whose twinkling gray eyes and tremulous 
lip bespeak an endless volubility on the score of 
personal reminiscences. Do this, too, within 
ear-shot of pleasant voices and merry laughter 
— of that tinkling ripple that tells of conversa- 
tion flowing lightly on, like a summer stream, 
clear where shallow, and reflective where deep! 
Listen to the wearisome bead-roll of family for- 
tunes — the births, deaths, and marriages of those 
you never saw, and hope never to see — hear 
the long narratives of past events, garbled, mis- 
taken, and misstated, with praise and censure 
ever misapplied, and then, I say, you will feel 
that, although such actions are not rewarded 
with red ribbons or blue, they yet demand a 
moral courage and a perseverance that in wider 
fields win high distinction. 

Albert Jekyl was a proficient in this great 
art ; indeed, his powers developed themselves 
according to the exigency, so that the more in- 
sufferably tiresome his companion, the more 
seemingly attentive and interested did he be- 
come. His features were, in fact, a kind of 
“ Bore-ometer,” in which, from the liveliness 
of the expression, you might calculate the 
stupidity of the tormentor ; and the mercury of 
his nature rose, not fell, under pressure. And 
so you would have said had you but seen him 
that evening, as seated beside Dalton, he heard, 
for hours long, how Irish gentlemen were ruined 
and their fortunes squandered. What jolly times 
they were, when men resisted the law, and 
never feared a debt! Not that while devouring 
all the “ rapparee” experiences of the father he 
had no eye for the daughters, and did not see 
what was passing around him. Ay, that did 
he, and mark well, how Lady Hester attached 
herself to Kate Dalton, flattered by every sign 
of her unbought admiration, and delighted with 
the wondering homage of the artless girl. He 
watched Onslow, too, turn from the inanimate 
charms of Nelly’s sculptured figures, to gaze 
upon the long dark lashes and brilliant complex- 
ion of her sister. He saw all the little comedy 
that went on around him, even to poor Nelly’s 
confusion, as she assisted Andy to arrange a 
tea-table, and, for the first time since their ar- 
rival, proceed to make use of that little service 
of white and gold which, placed on a marble 
table for show, constitutes the invariable decora- 
tion of every humble German drawing-room. 
He even overheard her, as she left the room 
giving Andy her directions a dozen times over 
how he was to procure the tea, and the su<*ar 
and the milk — extravagances she did not sylla- 


55 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ble without a sigh. He saw and heard every 
thing, and rapidly drew his own inferences, 
not alone of their poverty, but of tneit unfitness 
to struggle with it. 

“ And yet, I’d wager these people,” said he 
to himself, “ are reveling in superfluities ; at 
least, compared to me ! But, so it is, the rock 


that one man ties round his neck, another would 
make a stepping stone of!” This satisfactory 
conclusion gave additional sweetness to the bland 
smile with which he took his tea-cup from 
Nelly’s hand, while he pronounced the beverage 
the very best he had ever tasted out of Moscow. 
And so we must leave the party. 


chapter xv. 

CONTRASTS. 


“ So you think, Grounsell, I may be able to 
leave this in a day or two?” said Sir Stafford, 
as, on the day following the events we have just 
related, he slowly walked up and down his 
dressing-room. 

“ By the end of the week, if the weather only 
continue fine, we may be on the road again.” 

“ I’m glad of it — heartily glad of it ! Not 
that, as regarded myself, it mattered much where 
I was laid up in dock ; but I find that this isola- 
tion, instead of drawing the members of my 
family more closely together, has but served to 
widen the breach between them. Lady Hester 
and Sydney rarely meet ; George sees neither 
of them, and rarely comes near me, so that 
the sooner we go hence the better for all of us.” 

Grounsell gave a dry nod of assent, without 
speaking. 

u Sydney is very anxious to go and pass some 
time with her aunt Conway ; but I foresee, that 
if I consent, the difference between Lady Hester 
and her will then become an irreconcilable 
quarrel. You don’t agree with me, Grounsell?” 

“ I do not. I never knew the ends of a frac- 
tured bone unite by grating them eternally 
against each other.” 

“ And, as for George, the lounging habits of 
his service and cigars, have steeped him in an 
indolence from which there is no emerging. I 
scarcely know what to do with him.” 

“ It’s hard enough to decide upon,” rejoined 
Grounsell; “ he has some pursuits, but not one 
ambition.” 

“ He has very fair abilities, certainly,” said 
Sir Stafford, half peevishly. 

“ Very fair !” nodded Grounsell. 

u A good memory — a quick apprehension.” 

c£ He has one immense deficiency, for which 
nothing can compensate,” said the doctor, sol- 
emnly. 

“ Application — industry ?” 

“ No, with his opportunities a great deal is 
often acquired with comparatively light labor. 
1 mean a greater and more important element.” 


“ He wants steadiness, you think?” 

“No; I’ll tell you what he wants — he wants 
pluck !” 

Sir Stafford’s cheek became suddenly crimson, 
and his blue eyes grew almost black in the angry 
expression of the moment. 

“ Pluck, sir ? My son deficient in courage ?’* 

“ Not as you understand it now,” resumed 
Grounsell, calmly. “ He has enough, and more 
than enough to shoot me or any body else that 
would impugn it. The quality I mean is of a 
very different order. It is the daring to do a 
thing badly to-day in the oertain confidence that 
you will do it better to-morrow, and succeed 
perfectly in it this day twelvemonth. He has 
not pluck to encounter repeated failures, and 
yet return every morning to the attack ; he has 
not pluck to be bullied by mediocrity in the sure 
and certain confidence that he will live to sur- 
pass it ; in a word he has not that pluck which 
resists the dictation of inferior minds, and in- 
spires self-reliance through self-respect.” 

“ I confess I can not see that in the station be 
is like to occupy such qualities are at all essen- 
tial,” said Sir Stafford, almost haughtily. 

“ Twenty thousand a year is a fine thing, 
and may dispense with a great many gifts in its 
possessor : and a man like myself, who never 
owned a twentieth of the amount, may be a 
precious bad judge of the requisites to spend it 
suitably; but I’ll tell you one thing, Onslow, 
that organ the phrenologists call ‘ Combative- 
ness ’ is the best in the whole skull.” 

“ I think your Irish friend Dalton must have 
been imparting some of his native prejudices to 
you,” said Onslow, smiling ; “ and, by the way, 
when have you seen him ?” 

“ I went to call there last night, but I found 
a tea-party, and didn’t go in. Only think of 
these people, with beggary staring them on 
every side, sending out for 1 Caravan’ tea at I 
don’t know how many florins a pound.” 

“I heard of it; but then, once and a way — ” 

“ Once and a way ! Ay, but once is ruin.” . 


56 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ Well, I hope Prichard has arranged every 
thing by this time. He has gone over this 
morning to complete the business ; so that I 
trust, when we leave Baden, these worthy 
people will be in the enjoyment of easier cir- 
cumstances.” 

“ I see him crossing over the street now. 
I’ll leave you together.” 

“ No, no, Grounsell ; wait and hear his report ; 
we may want your advice besides, for I’m not 
quite clear that this large sum of arrears should 
he left at Dalton’s untrammeled disposal, as 
Mr. Prichard intended it should be a test of that 
excellent gentleman’s prudence.” 

Mr. Prichard’s knock was now heard at the 
door, and the next moment he entered. His 
pale countenance was slightly flushed, and in 
the expression of his face it might be read, 
that he had come from a scene of unusual ex- 
citement. 

“ I have failed, completely failed, Sir Stafford,” 
said he, with a sigh, as he seated himself, and 
threw a heavy roll of paper on the table before 
.him. 

As Sir Stafford did not break the pause that 
followed these words, Prichard resumed. 

u I told you last night that Mr. Dalton, not 
being able clearly to understand my communi- 
cation, which I own, to prevent any searching 
scrutiny on his part, I did my best to envelop in 
a covering of technicalities, referred me to his 
eldest daughter, in whose acuteness he reposes 
much confidence. If I was not impressed with 
the difficulty of engaging such an adversary, 
from his description, still less was I on meeting 
with the young lady this morning. A very 
quietly-mannered, unassuming person, with con- 
siderable good looks, which once upon a time 
must have been actual beauty, was seated alone 
in the drawing-room awaiting me. Her dress 
was studiously plain ; and were it not for an air 
of great neatness throughout, I should perhaps 
call it even poor. I mention all these matters 
w r ith a certain prolixity, because they bear upon 
what ensued. 

“ Without waiting for me to open my com- 
munication, she began by a slight apology for 
ber presence there, occasioned, as she said, by 
ber father’s ill-health and consequent incapacity 
to transact business ; after which she added a 
few words expressive of a hope that I would 
make my statement in the most simple and in- 
telligible form, divested so far as might be of 
technical phraseology, and such as, to use her 
own words, a very unlettered person like herself 
might comprehend. 

“ This opening, I confess, somewhat startled 
me; I scarcely expected so much from her 
father’s daughter; but I acquiesced, and went 
on. As we concocted the whole plot together 
here, Sir Stafford, it is needless that I should 
weary you by a repetition of it. It is enough 
that I say, I omitted nothing of plausibility, 
either in proof of the bequest, or in the descrip- 
tion of the feeling that prompted its fulfillment. 
J descanted upon the happy event which, in the 


course of what seemed an accident, had brought 
the two families together, and prefaced their 
business intercourse by a friendship. I adverted 
to the good influence increased comforts w T ould 
exercise upon her father’s health. I spoke of 
her sister and her brother in the fuller enjoy- 
ment of all that became their name and birth 
She heard me to the very end with deep atten- 
tion, never once interrupting, nor even by a look 
or gesture expressing dissent. 

“ At last, when I had concluded, she said, 
£ This, then, is a bequest ?’ 

“ I replied affirmatively. 

“ ‘In that case,’ said she, * the terms on which 
it is conveyed w T ill solve all the difficulty of our 
position. If my uncle Godfrey intended this 
legacy to be a peace-offering, how’ever late it 
has been in coming, we should have no hesita- 
tion in accepting it ; if he meant that his gen- 
erosity should be trammeled by conditions, or 
subject in any w T ay to the good pleasure of a 
third party, the matter will have a different 
aspect. Which is the truth ?’ 

“ I hesitated at this point-blank appeal, so 
different from w T hat I looked for; and she at 
once asked to see the will. Disconcerted still 
more, I now prevaricated, stating that I had 
not brought the document with me ; that a 
memorandum of its provisions w r ould, I had 
supposed, prove sufficient ; and finally assured 
her that acceptance of the bequest involved 
neither a condition nor a pledge. 

“ ‘ It may, however, involve an obligation, sir,’ 
said she, firmly. ‘Let us learn if such be the 
case.’ 

“ Are you so proud, Miss Dalton,” said I, 
“that you can not even submit to an obliga- 
tion ?” 

“ She blushed deeply, and with a w T eak voice 
answered, 

“ ‘ We are too poor to incur a debt.’ 

“ Seeing it w T as useless to dw’ell longer on 
this part of the subject, I adverted to her father’s 
increasing age, his breaking health, and the 
necessity of affording him a greater share of 
comforts, but she suddenly stopped me, saying, 

‘“You make my refusal of this favor — for 
such it is, and nothing less — a more painful 
duty than I deemed it, but you can not alter 
my resolution, sir. Poverty, so long as it is 
honorable, has nothing mean nor undeserving 
about it, but dependence can never bestow hap- 
piness. It is true, as you say, that my dear 
father might have around him many of those 
little luxuries that he once w T as used to ; but 
with what changed hearts would not his children 
minister them to him? Where wrould be that 
high prompting sense of duty that every self- 
sacrifice is met by now ? Where that rich 
rew r ard of an approving spirit that lightens toil 
and makes even weariness blessed? Our hum- 
ble fortunes have linked us closer together; the 
storms of the world have made us draw nearer 
to each other, have given us one heart, hope, 
and love alike. Leave us then to struggle on, 
nor cast the gloom of dependence over days that 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


all the ills of poverty could not darken. We 
are happy now ; who can tell what we should 
become hereafter?’ 

u I tried to turn her thoughts upon her 
brother, but she quickly stopped me, saying, 

“‘Frank is a soldier; the rewards in his 
career are never withheld from the deserving ; 
at all events, wealth would be unsuitable to him. 
He never knew but narrow fortunes, and the 
spirit that becomes a more exalted condition is 
not the growth of a day.’ 

“ I next ventured, but with every caution and 
delicacy, to inquire whether your aid and influ- 
ence might not avail them in any future plans 
of life they might form ? 

u ‘We have no plans,’ said she, simply; l or 
rather, we have had so many, that they all 
resolve themselves into mere castle-building. 
My dear father longs for Ireland again — for 
home as he still calls it — forgetting that we 
have no longer a home there. He fancies 
warm-hearted friends and neighbors — an affec- 
tionate people, attached to the very traditions 
of his name ; but it is now wiser to feed this 
delusion than destroy it, by telling him that 
few, scarcely one of his old companions still 
lives — that other influences, other fortunes, 
other names, have replaced ours; we should go 
back there as strangers, and without even the 
stranger’s claim to kind acceptance. Then, we 
had thought of the new world beyond seas; but 
these are the lands of the young, the ardent, 
and the enterprising, high in hope and resolute 
of heart ; and so, at last, we deemed it ^wisest 
to seek out some quiet spot, in some quiet 
country, where our poverty would, at least, 
present nothing remarkable, and there to live 
for each other ; and we are happy — so happy — 
that save the passing dread that this delicious 
oalm of life may not be lasting, we have few 
sorrows.’ 

“ Again and again I tried to persuade her to 
recall her decision, but in vain. Once only did 
she show any sign of hesitation. It was when I 
charged her with pride as the reason of refusal. 
Then suddenly her eyes filled up, and her lip 
trembled, and such a change came over her 
features, that I grew shocked at my own words. 

“‘Pride!’ cried she. ‘If you mean that 
inordinate self-esteem that prefers isolation to 
sympathy — that rejects an obligation from mere 
haughtiness, I know not the feeling. Our pride 
is not in our self-sufficiency — for every step in 
life teaches us how much we owe to others; 
but in this, that low in lot, and humble in means, 
we have kept, and hope still to keep the motives 
and principles that guided us in happier fortunes. 
Yes, you may call us proud, for we are so — 
proud that our poverty has not made us mean — 
proud that in a strange land we have inspired 
sentiments of kindness, and even of affection — 
proud that, without any of the gifts or graces 
which attract, we have drawn toward us this 
instance of noble generosity of which you are 
now the messenger. I am not ashamed to own 
pride in all these.’ . 


57 

“To press her further was useless ; and only 
asking, that if by any future change of circum- 
stances she might be induced to alter her resolve, 
she would still consider the proposition as open 
to her acceptance, I took my leave.” 

“ This is most provoking,” exclaimed Onslow. 

“ Provoking !” cried Grounsell ; “ you call it 
provoking ! That where you sought to confer 
a benefit you discover a spirit greater than all 
the favors wealth ever gave, or ever will give ! 
A noble nature, that soars above every accident 
of fortune, provoking !” 

“I spoke with reference to myself,” replied 
Onslow, tartly ; “ and I repeat, it is most pro- 
voking that I am unable to make a recom- 
pense where I have unquestionably inflicted a 
wrong !” 

“ Rather thank God that in this age of money- 
seeking and gold-hunting, there lives one whose 
heart is uncorrupted and incorruptible,” cried 
Grounsell. 

“ If I had not seen it I could not have believed 
it !” said Prichard. 

“ Of course not, sir,” chimed in Grounsell, 
bluntly. “ Yours is not the trade where such 
instances are frequently met with ; nor have I 
met with many myself!” 

“I beg to observe,” said Prichard, mildly, 
“ that even in my career I have encountered 
many acts of high generosity.” 

“ Generosity ! Yes, I know what that means. 
A sister who surrenders her legacy to a spend- 
thrift brother — a childless widow that denies 
herself the humblest means of comfort to help 
the ruined brother of her lost husband — a wife 
who places in a reckless husband’s hand the 
last little remnant of fortune that was hoarded 
against the day of utter destitution ; and they 
are always women who do these things — saving, 
scraping, careful creatures, full of self-denial 
and small economies. Not like your generous 
men, as the world calls them, whose free-heart- 
edness is nothing but selfishness — whose liberal- 
ity is the bait to catch flattery. But it is not 
of generosity I speak here. To give, even to 
one’s last farthing, is far easier than to refuse 
help when you are needy. To draw the rags 
of poverty closer, to make their folds drape 
decently, and hide the penury within, that is the 
victory, indeed.” 

“ Mark you,” cried Onslow, laughing, “ it is 
an old bachelor says all this.” 

Grounsell’s face became scarlet, and as sud- 
denly pale as death ; and, although he made an 
effort to speak, not a sound issued from his lips. 
For an instant the pause which ensued was 
unbroken, when a tap was heard at the door. 
It was a message from Lady Hester, requesting, 
if Sir Stafford were disengaged, to be permitted 
to speak with him. 

“You’re not going, Grounsell?” cried Sir 
Stafford, as he saw the doctor seize his hat ; 
but he hastened out of the room without speak- 
ing. While the lawyer, gathering up his papers, 
prepared to follow him. 

“We shall see you at dinner, Prichard ?’ 4 


53 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


said Sir Stafford. “I have some hope of joining 
the party myself to-day.” 

Mr. Prichard bowed his acknowledgments, 
and departed. 

And now the old baronet sat down to ponder 
in his mind the reasons for so strange an event 
as a visit in the forenoon from Lady Hester. 
“What can it mean? She can’t want money,” 
thought he ; “ ’tis but the other day I sent her 
a large check. Is she desirous of going back 
to England again? Are there any new dis- 
agreements at work ?” This last thought 
reminded him of those of whom he had been so 
lately hearing — of those whose narrow fortunes 
had drawn them nearer to each other, rendering 
them more tolerant and more attached, while in 
his own family, where affluence prevailed, he 
saw nothing but dissension. 

As he sat pondering over this not too pleasant 
problem, a tall and serious-looking footman 
entered the room, rolling before him an arm- 
chair. Another and not less dignified function- 
ary followed, with cushions and a foot-warmer. 
Signs which Sir Stafford at once read as indic- 
ative of a long interview; for her ladyship’s 
preparations were always adopted with a degree 
of forethought and care, that she very rarely 
exhibited in matters of real consequence. 

Sir Stafford was contemplating these august 
demonstrations, when the solemn voice of an 
upper servant announced Lady Hester, and, 
after a second’s pause, she swept into the room 
in all that gauzy amplitude of costume, that 
gives to the wearer a seeming necessity of 
inhabiting the most spacious apartments of a 
palace. 

“How d’ye do?” said she, languidly, as she 
sank down into her chair. “ I had not the least 
notion how far this room was off ! If Clements 
has not been taking me a tour of the whole house.” 

Mr. Clements, who was still busily engaged 
in disposing and arranging the cushions, blandly 
assured her ladyship that they had come by the 
most direct way. 

“I am sorry for it,” said she, peevishly, “for 
I shall have the more fatigue in going back 
again. There, you’re only making it worse. 
You never can learn that I don’t want to be 
propped up like an invalid. That will do; you 
may leave the room. Sir Stafford, would you 
be good enough to draw that blind a little 
lower, the sun is directly in my eyes. Dear 
me, how yellow you are ! or is it the light in 
this horrid room ? Am I so dreadfully bilious- 
looking ?” 

“ On the contrary,” said he, smiling, “ I 
should pronounce you in the most perfect 
enjoyment of health.” 

“ Oh, of course, I have no doubt of that. I 
only wonder you didn’t call it i rude health.’ I 
can not conceive any thing more thoroughly 
provoking than the habit of estimating one’s 
sufferings by the very efforts made to suppress 
them.” 

“ Sufferings, my dear; I really was not aware 
that you had sufferings.” 


“I am quite sure of that; nor is it my hab:t 
to inflict others with complaint. I m sure your 
friend, Mr. Grounsell, would be equally unable 
to acknowledge their existence. How I do hate 
that man ! and I know, Stafford, he hates us. 
Oh, you smile as if to say, ‘ Only some of us ;* 
but I tell you he detests us all, and his old 
school-fellow — as he vulgarly persists in calling 
you — as much as the others.” 

“ I sincerely hope you are mistaken — ” 

“Polite, certainly; you trust that his dislike 
is limited to myself. Not that for my own part 
I have the least objection to any amount of de- 
testation with which he may honor me ; it is the 
tribute the low and obscure invariably render 
the well-born, and I am quite ready to accept 
it ; but I own it is a little hard that I must sub- 
mit to the infliction beneath my own roof.” 

“ My dear Hester, how often have I assured 
you that you were mistaken ; and that what you 
regard as disrespect to yourself is the roughness 
of an unpolished, but sterling nature. The tie9 
which have grown up between him and me sine© 
we were boys together ought not to be snapped 
for sake of a mere misunderstanding ; and if you 
can not or will not estimate him for the good 
qualities he unquestionably possesses, at least 
bear with him for my sake.” 

“ So I should — so I strive to do ; but the evil 
does not end there ; he inspires every body with 
the same habits of disrespect and indifference. 
Did you remark Clements, a few moments since, 
when I spoke to him about that cushion?” 

“ No, I can’t say that I did.” 

“ Why should you ; nobody ever does trouble 
their head about any thing that relates to my 
happiness ! Well, I remarked it, and saw the 
supercilious smile he assumed when I told hifu 
that the pillow was wrong. He looked over at 
you , too, as though to say, ‘You see how im- 
possible it is to please her.’ ” 

“ I certainly saw nothing of that.” 

“Even Prichard, that formerly was the most 
diffident of men, is now so much at his ease, so 
very much at home in my presence. It is quite 
amusing. It was but yesterday he asked me to 
take wine with him at dinner. The anachronism 
was bad enough, but only fancy the liberty !” 

“ And what did you do ?” asked Sir Stafford, 
with difficulty repressing a smile. 

“ I affected not to hear, hoping he would not 
expose himself before the servants by a repetition 
of the request. But he went on, ‘ Will your 
ladyship’ — I assure you he said that — ‘will your 
ladyship do me the honor to drink wine with 
me ?’ I merely stared at him, but never took 
any notice of his speech. Would you believe it! 
he returned to the charge again, and with his 
hand on his wine-glass began, ‘ I have taken the 
liberty — ’ I couldn’t bear more, so I turned 
to George, and said, ‘ George, will you tell that 
man not to do that .’ ” 

Sir Stafford could not restrain himself any 
longer, but broke out in a burst of hearty lau^lv 
ter. “Poor Prichard,” said he, at last, “I al- 
most think I see him before me 1” 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


tc You never think of saying, ‘ Poor Hester, 
these are not the associates you have been ac- 
customed to live with !’ But I could be indiffer- 
ent to all these, if my own family treated me 
with proper deference. As for Sydney and 
George, however, they have actually coventried 
me ; and although I anticipated many sacrifices 
when I married, this I certainly never spec- 
ulated upon. Lady Wallingcroft, indeed, warned 
me to a certain extent of what I should meet 
with ; but I fondly hoped that disparity of years 
and certain differences, the fruits of early pre- 
judices and habits, would be the only drawbacks 
on my happiness ; but I have lived to see my 
error !” * 

“ The event has, indeed, not fulfilled what 
was expected from it,” said Sir Stafford, with a 
slow and deliberate emphasis on each word. 

“ Oh ! I comprehend you, perfectly,” said 
She, coloring slightly, and for the first time dis- 
playing any trait of animation in her features. 
u You have been as much disappointed as I 
have ! Just what my aunt Wallingcroft pro- 
phesied. ‘Remember,’ said she — and I’m sure 
I have had cause to remember it — ‘ their ideas 
are not our ideas ; they have not the same hopes, 
ambitions, or objects, that we have ; their very 
morality is not our morality !’ ” 

“ Of what people or nation was her ladyship 
speaking,” asked Sir Stafford, mildly. 

“ Of the city, generally,” replied Lady Hes- 
ter, proudly. , . . 

“ Not in ignorance either,” rejoined Sir Staf- 
ford ; “ her own father w T as a merchant in Lom- 
bard-street.” 

“ But the family are of the best blood in Lan- 
cashire, Sir Stafford.” 

“ It may be so ; but I remember Walter Crofts 
himself boasting that he had danced to warm his 
feet on the very steps of the door in Grosvenor- 
equare, which afterward acknowledged him as 
the master : and as he owed his wealth and 
station to honest industry and successful en- 
terprise, none heard the speech without thinking 
the better of him.” 

“ The anecdote is new to me,” said Lady 
Hester, superciliously ; “ and I have little doubt 
that the worthy man was merely embellishing 
an incident to suit the tastes of his company.” 

“ It was the company around his table, as 
Lord Mayor of London !” 

“ I could have sworn it !” said she, laughing ; 
tc but w T hat has all this to do with what I wished 
to speak about — if I could but remember what it 
was ! These eternal digressions have made me 
forget every thing.” 

Although the appeal was palpably directed 
to Sir Stafford, he sat silent and motionless, pa- 
tiently awaiting the moment when recollection 
might enable her to resume. 

“ Dear me ! how tiresome it is. I can not 
think of w T hat I came about, and you will not 
assist me in the least.” 

“ Up to this moment you have given me no 
clew to it,” said Sir Stafford, with a smile. “It 
was not to speak of Grounsell?” 


59 

“ Of course not. I hate even to think of 
him !” 

“ Of Prichard, perhaps ?” asked he, with a 
half-sly twinkle of the eye. 

“ Just as little !” 

“ Possibly your friend Colonel Haggerstone 
was in your thoughts ?” 

“ Pray, do not call him my friend. I know 
very little of the gentleman ; I intend even to 
know less. I declined to receive him this mom 
ng, when he sent up his card.” 

“ An attention I fear he has not shown that 
poor creature he wounded, Grounsell tells me.” 

“Oh, I have it!” said she, suddenly; the 
allusion to Hans at once recalling the Daltons, 
and bringing to mind the circumstances she de- 
sired to remember. “ It was exactly of these 
poor people I came to speak You must know, 
Sir Stafford, that I have made the acquaintance 
of a most interesting family, here — a father and 
two daughters — named Dalton — ” 

“Grounsell has already told me so,” inter- 
rupted Sir Stafford. 

“ Of course, then, every step I have taken in 
this intimacy has been represented in the most 
odious light. The amiable doctor will have, 
doubtless, imputed to me the least worthy mo- 
tives for knowing persons in their station?” 

“ On the contrary, Hester. If he expressed 
any qualification to the circumstance, it was in 
the form of a fear, lest the charms of your so- 
ciety, and the graces of your manner, might in- 
dispose them to return with patience to the dull 
round of their daily privations.” 

“Indeed !” said she superciliously. “A weak 
dose of his own acquaintance would be, then, 
the best antidote he could advise them ! But, 
really, I must not speak of this man ; any allu- 
sion to him is certain to jar my nerves, and ir- 
ritate my feelings for the whole day after. I 
want to interest you about these Daltons.” 

“ Nothing more easy, my dear, since I already 
know something about them.” 

“ The doctor being your informant,” said she, 
snappishly. 

“ No, no, Hester ; many, many years ago, 
certain relations existed between its, and I 
grieve to say that Mr. Dalton has reason to re- 
gard me in no favorable light ; and it was but 
the very moment I received your message, I 
was learning from Prichard the failure of an 
effort I had made to repair a wrong. I will not 
weary you with a long and a sad story, but brief- 
ly mention that Mr. Dalton’s late wife was a 
distant relative of my own.” 

“ Yes, yes; I see it all. There was a little 
love in the business — an old flame revived in 
after-life — nothing serious, of course — but jeal- 
ousies and misconstructions — to any extent- 
Dear me, and that was the reason she died of a 
broken heart !” It was hard to say if Sir Staf- 
ford was more amused at the absurdity of this 
imputation, or stung by the cool indifference 
with which she uttered it ; nor was it easy to 
know how the struggle within him would ter- 
minate, when she went on. “ It does appear 


60 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


so silly to see a pair of elderly gentlemen rak- 
ing up a difference out. of an ‘ amourette ' 1 of the 
past century. You are very fortunate to have 
so quiet a spot to exhibit in !” 

“ I am sorry to destroy an illusion so very full 
of amusement, Lady Hester ; but I owe it to all 
parties to say, that your present fancy has not 
even the shadow of a color. I never even saw 
Mrs. Dalton — never have yet met her husband. 
The event to which I was about to allude, when 
you interrupted me, related to a bequest — ” 

“ Oh !” I know the whole business, now ! 
It was at your suit that dreadful mortgage was 
foreclosed, and these dear people were driven 
away from their ancient seat of Mount Dalton. 
I’m sure I’ve heard the story at least ten times 
over, but never suspected that your name was 
mixed up with it. I do assure you, Sir Stafford, 
that they have never dropped the most distant 
hint of you in connection with that sad episode.” 

“ They have been but just, Lady Hester,” 
said he, gravely. “ I never did hold a mortgage 
over this property, still less exercised the severe 
right you speak of. But it is quite needless to 
pursue a narrative that taxes your patience so 
severely; enough to say, that through Prichard’s 
mediation, I have endeavored to persuade Mr. 
Dalton that I was the trustee, under a will, of a 
small annuity on his life. He has peremptorily 
refused to accept it, although, as I am informed, 
living in circumstances of great poverty.” 

“ Poor they must be, certainly. The house 
is wretchedly furnished, and the girls wear such 
clothes as I never saw before ; not that they are 
even the worn and faded finery of better days, 
but actually the coarse stuffs such as the peas- 
ants wear !” 

“ So I have heard.” 

“ Not even an edging of cheap lace round 
their collars ; not a bow of ribbon ; not an or- 
nament of the humblest kind about them.” 

“ And both handsome, I am told ?” 

“ The younger, beautiful ! — the deepest blue 
eyes in the world, with long fringed lashes, and 
the most perfect mouth you can imagine. The 
elder very pretty too, but sad looking, for she 
has a fearful lameness, poor thing. They say 
it came from a fall off a horse, but I suspect it 
must have begun in infancy; one of those dread- 
ful things they call ‘ spine.’ Like all persons in 
her condition, she is monstrously clever ; carves 
the most beautiful little groups in boxwood, and 
models in clay and plaster. She is a dear, 
mild, gentle thing ; but, I suspect, with all that 
infirmity of temper that comes of long illness, 
at least, she is seldom in high spirits like her 
sister. Kate, the younger girl, is my favorite; 
a fine, generous, warm-hearted creature, full of 
life and animation, and so fond of me already.” 

If Sir Stafford did not smile at the undue em- 
phasis laid upon the last few words, it was not 
that he had not read their full significance. 

“ And Mr. Dalton himself — what is he like ?” 

“Like nothing I ever met before : the oddest 
mixture of right sentiments and wronor infer- 
ences— -of benevolence, cruelty, roughness, gen- 


tleness; the most refined consideration, and the 
most utter disregard for other people and their 
feelings — that ever existed. You never can 
guess what will be his sentiments at any mo- 
ment, or on any subject, except on the question 
of family, when his pride almost savors of in- 
sanity. I believe, in his own country, he would 
be nothing strange nor singular, but out of it ho 
is a figure unsuited to any landscape.” 

“ It is hard to say how much of this peculiar- 
ity may have come of adverse fortune,” said 
Sir Stafford, thoughtfully. 

“ I’m certain he was always the same ; at 
least, it would be impossible to imagine him 
any thing different. But I have not come to 
speak of him, but of his daughter Kate, in 
whom I am deeply interested. You must-know, 
Sir Stafford, that I have formed a littld plan, 
for which I want your aid and concurrence. 
It is to take this dear girl along with us to 
Italy.” 

“ Take her to Italy ? In what position, Lady 
Hester? You surely never intended any menial 
station ?” 

“ Of course not : a kind of humble friend — 
what they call a ‘ companion’ in the newspapers ; 
to have always with one. She is exactly the 
creature to dissipate low spirits and banish 
cnnui : and, with the advantages of training and 
teaching, will become a most attractive girl. 
As it is, she has not been quite neglected. Her 
French accent is very pure; German, I conclude, 
she talks fluently; she plays prettily — at least, 
as well as one can judge on that vile, tinkling 
old harpsichord, whose legs dance every time it 
is touched ; and sings very pleasingly those little 
German ballads that are now getting into fashion. 
In fact, it is the tone of society — that mannerism 
of the world — she is deficient in more than any 
thing else.” 

“ She certainly could not study in a better 
school than yours, Lady Hester ; but I see some 
very great objections to the whole scheme, and 
without alluding to such as relate to ourselves, 
but simply those that regard the young lady 
herself. Would it be a kindness to withdraw 
her from the sphere wherein she is happy and 
contented, to mingle for a season or so in an- 
other and very different rank ; contracting new 
habits of thought, new ideas, new associations.; 
learning each day to look down upon that 
humble lot to which she must eventually 
return ?” 

“ She need not return to it. She is certain to 
marry, and marry well. A girl with so many 
attractions as she will possess, may aspire to a 
very high match, indeed.” 

“ This is too hazardous a game of life to 
please my fancy,” said Sir Stafford, dubiously. 
“We ought to look every contingency in the 
face in such a matter as this.” 

“ I have given the subject the very deepest 
consideration,” replied Lady Hester, authorita- 
tively. “I have turned the question over and 
over in my mind, and have not seen a single 
difficulty for which there is not an easy remedy.” 


61 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Sydney certainly ought to be consulted.” 

u I have done so already. She is charmed 
with the project. She sees, perhaps, how few 
companionable qualities she herself possesses, 
and anticipates that Miss Dalton will supply that 
place toward me that she is too indolent and too 
indifferent to fill.” 

“ How would the family receive such a prop- 
osition ? they seem to be very proud. Is it 
likely that they would listen to a project of this 
nature ?” 

“There lies the only difficulty; nor need it 
be an insuperable one, if we manage cleverly. 
The affair will require delicate treatment, be- 
cause, if we merely invite her to accompany us, 
they will naturally enough decline an invitation, 
to comply with which would involve a costly 
outlay in dress and ornament, quite impossible 
in their circumstances. This must be a matter 
of diplomacy, of which the first step is, how- 
ever, already taken.” 

“ The first step ! How do you mean ?” 

“Simply, that I have already, but in the 
deepest confidence, hinted the possibility of the 
project to Kate Dalton, and she is wild with 
delight at the bare thought of it. The dear 
child ! with what rapture she heard me speak 
of the balls, and fetes, and theatres of the great 
world ! of the thousand fascinations society has 
in store for all who have a rightful claim to its 
homage, the tribute rendered to beauty, greater 
than that conceded to rank or genius itself ! I 
told her of all these, and I showed her my 
diamonds !” 

Sir Stafford made, involuntarily, a slight 
gesture with his hand, as though to say, “ This 
last was the coup-dc-gracc .” 

“ So far, then, as Kate is concerned, she will 
be a willing ally ; nor do I anticipate any oppo- 
sition from her quiet, submissive sister, who 
seems to doat upon her. The papa, indeed, is 
like to prove refractory ; but this must be our 
business to overcome.” 

Lady Hester, who at the opening of the inter- 
view had spoken with all the listlessness of 
ennui , had gradually worked herself up to a 
species of ardor, that made her words flow rap- 
idly ; a sign well known to Sir Stafford, that her 
mind was bent upon an object that would not 
admit of gainsay. Some experience had taught 
him the impolicy of absolute resistance, and 
trained him to a tactic of waiting and watching 
for eventualities ; which, whether the campaign 
be civil, military, or conjugal, is not without a 
certain degree of merit. In the present case 
there were several esc ape- valves. The Daltons 
were three in number, and should be unanimous. 
All the difficulties of the plan should be arranged, 
not alone to their perfect satisfaction, but with- 
out a wound to their delicacy. Grounsell was 
certain to be a determined opponent to the 
measure, and would of course be consulted upon 
it. And, lastly, if every thing worked well and 
favorably, Lady Hester herself was by no means 
certain to wish for it the day after she had 
conquered all opposition. 


These, and many similar reasons, showed Sir 
Stafford that he might safely concede a concur- 
rence that need never become practical, and, 
making a merit of Iris necessity, he affected to 
yield to arguments that had no value in his 
eyes. 

“ How do yon propose to open the campaign, 
Hester?” asked he, after a pause. 

“ I have arranged it all,” said she, with ani- 
mation. “We must visit the Daltons together 
— or, better still, you shall go alone. No, no ; 
a letter will be the right thing, a very carefully- 
written letter, that shall refute by anticipation 
every possible objection to the plan, and show 
the Daltons the enormous advantages they must 
derive from it.” 

“ As, for instance ?” said Sir Stafford, with 
apparent anxiety to be instructed. 

“ Enormous they certainly will be !” exclaim- 
ed she ; “first of all, Kate, as I have said, is cer- 
tain to marry well, and will be thus in a position 
to benefit the others, who, poor things, can do 
nothing for themselves.” 

“Very true, my dear; very true. You see 
all these things far more rapidly, and more 
clearly, ^han I do.” 

“ I have thought so long and so much about 
it, I suppose there are few contingencies of the 
case have escaped me ; and now that I learn 
how you once knew and were attached to the 
poor girl’s mother — ” 

“ I am sorry to rob you of so harmless an il- 
lusion,” interrupted he, smiling ; “ but I have 
already said I never saw her.” 

“Oh, you did say so! I forget all about it. 
Well, there was something or other that brought 
the families in relation, no matter what ; and it 
must be a great satisfaction to you to see the 
breach restored, and through my intervention, 
too, for I must needs say, Sir Stafford, there are 
many women who would entertain a silly jeal- 
ousy respecting one who once occupied the first 
place in their husband’s esteem.” 

“ Must I once more assure you that this whole 
assumption is groundless; that I never — ” 

“ Quite enough — more thaii I ask for — more 
than I have any right to ask for,” broke she in* 
“ If you did not interrupt me — and pardon me 
if I say that this habit of yours is calculated to 
produce innumerable misconceptions — I say, 
that if I had not been interrupted, I would have 
told you that I regard such jealousies as most 
mean and unworthy. We can not be the arbit- 
ers of our affections any more than of our for- 
tunes ; and if in early life we may have formed 
attachments, imprudent attachments” — here her 
ladyship, who had unwittingly glided from the 
consideration of Sir Stafford’s case to that of her 
own, became confused and flurried, her cheek 
flushing and her chest heaving ; she looked 
overwhelmed with embarrassment, and it was 
only after a long struggle to regain the lost 
clew to her discourse she could falteringly say, 
“ Don’t you agree with me ? I’m sure you 
agree with me.” 

“ I’m certain I should, if I only understood 


62 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


you aright,” said he, good-naturedly, and by his 
voice and look at once reassuring her. 

“Well, so far, all is settled,” said she, rising 
from her chair ; “ and now for this letter ; I 
conclude, the sooner it be done the better. When 
may we hope to get away from this dreary 
place ?” 

“ Grounsell tells me, by Friday or Saturday 
next I shall be able for the journey.” 

“ If it had not been to provoke me, I’m cer- , 
tain he would have pronounced you quite well 
ten days ago.” 

“ You forget, Hester, my own sensations — 
not to say sufferings — could scarcely deceive 
me.” 

“ On the contrary, Doctor Clarus assured me 
there is nothing in the world so very deceptive ; 
that pain is only referred to the diseased part 
by the brain, and has no existence whatever, 
and that there is no such thing as pain at all. 
He explained it perfectly ; and I understood it 


all at the time. He is so clever, Doctor Claras, 
and gives one such insight into the nature of 
their malady, that it really becomes quite inter- 
esting to be ill under his care. I remember 
when William, the footman, broke his arm, 
Clarus used to see him every day ; and to show 
that no union, as it is called, could take place 
so long as motion continued, he would gently 
grate the fractured ends of the bone together.” 

“And was William convinced of the no-pain 
doctrine ?” cried Sir Stafford, his cheek flashing 
with momentary anger. 

“ The ignorant creature actually screamed 
out every time he was touched ; but Clarus said 
it would take at least two centuries to conquer 
the prejudices of the common people.” 

“ Not improbable either I” said Sir Stafford. 

“Dear me, how very late it is,” cried she, 
suddenly; “and we dine at six!” And with a 
graceful motion of the hand she said, “By! 
by !” and left the room. 


CHAPTER XVI* 

THE “SAAL” OF “THE RUSS1E.’ 


Has the observant reader ever remarked a 
couple of persons parading the deck of a ship 
at sea — walking step for step through half a 
day, turning with the same short jerk, to resume 
the same short path, and yet never interchanging 
a Word ; the rhythm of the foot-fall the only tie 
of companionship between them. They halt 
occasionally, too, to look over the bulwarks, at 
some white sail far away, or some cloud-bank 
rising from the horizon ; mayhap they linger to 
watch the rolling porpoises as they pass, or the 
swift nautilus, as he glides along ; but yet never 
a sound nor token of mutual intelligence escapes 
them. It is enough that they live surrounded 
by the same influences, breathe the same air, 
and step in the same time ; they have their 
separate thoughts, wide, perhaps, as the poles 
asunder, and yet by some strange magnetism 
they feel there is a kind of sociality in their 
speechless intercourse. 

From some such cause, perhaps, it was that 
Colonel Haggerstone and Jekyl took their ac- 
customed walk in the dreary dining-room of the 
tl Hotel de Russie.” The evening was cold and 
cheerless, as on that when first we met them 
there — a drifting rain, mingled with sleet, beat 
against the windows, and the wind, in mournful 
cadences, sighed along the dreary and deserted 
corridors. It was a comfortless scene within 
doors and without. A chance glance through 


the window — an occasional halt, to listen when 
the thunder rolled louder and nearer, showed 
that, to a certain extent, the same emotions 
were common to each ; but nothing else betray- 
ed any community of sentiment between them, 
as they paced the room from end to end. 

“English people come abroad for climate!” 
said Haggerstone, as he buttoned his collar 
tightly around his neck, and pressed his hat 
more firmly on his head. “ But wdio ever saw 
the like of this in England ?” 

“In England you have weather, but no cli- 
mate!” said Jekyl, with one of his little smiles 
of self-approval, for he caressed himself when 
ho uttered a “ mot,” and seemed to feel no slight 
access of self-satisfaction. 

“ It’s not the worst thing we have there, sir, 
I promise you,” rejoined Haggerstone, authorita- 
tively. 

“ Our coughs and rheumatics are, indeed, sore 
drawbacks upon patriotism.” 

“ I do not speak of them, sir ; I allude to our 
insolent, overbearing aristocracy, w’ho, sprung 
from the people as they are, recruited from the 
ranks of trade or law, look down upon the really 
ancient blood of the land — the untitled nobility. 
Who are they, sir, that treat us thus? The 
fortunate speculator, who has amassed a million; 
the Attorney-General, who has risen to a Chief- 
Justiceship ; men without ancestry, without land- 


63 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ed influence ; a lucky banker, perhaps, like our 
liiend up-stairs, may stand in the Gazette to- 
morrow or next day, as baron or viscount, with- 
out one single requirement of the station, save 
his money.” 

I confess, if I have a weakness, it is for 
lords,” said Jeltyl, simperingly. “I suppose I 
must have caught it very early in life, for it 
clings to me like an instinct.” 

‘ I feel happy to avow that I have none, sir. 
Six centuries of gentry blood suffice for all my 
ambitions ; but I boil over when I see the over- 
weening presumption of these new people.” 

“ After all, new people, like a new watch, a 
Dew coat, and a new carriage, have the best 
chance of lasting. Old and worn out are very 
nearly convertible terms.” 

“ These are sentiments, sir, which would, 
doubtless, do you excellent service with the 
family up-stairs, but are quite thrown away 
upon such a mere country gentleman as my- 

Jekyl smiled, and drew up his cravat, with 
his habitual simpering air, but said nothing. 

“ Do you purpose remaining much longer 
here ?” asked Haggerstone, abruptly. 

“ A few days, at most.” 

“Do you turn north or south?” 

“ I fancy I shall winter in Italy.” 

t£ The Onslows, I believe, are bound for 
Rome ?” 

“ Can’t say,” was the short reply. 

“ J ust the sort of people for Italy. The fash- 
ionables, of what the Chinese call ‘ second chop,’ 
go down admirably at Rome or Naples.” 

“ Very pleasant places they are too,” said 
Jekyl, with a smile. “The climate permits 
every thing — even dubious intimacies.” 

Haggerstone gave a short “ Ha !” at the 
heresy of this speech, but made no other com- 
ment on it. 

“ They say that Miss Onslow will have about 
a hundred thousand pounds?” said Haggerstone, 
with an air of inquiry. 

“ What a deal of maccaroni and parmesan 
that sum would buy!” 

“ Would you have her marry an Italian, sir?” 

“ Perhaps not, if she were to consult me on 
the matter,” said Jekyl, blandly: “but as this 
is, to say the least, not very probable, I may 
own that I like the mixed marriages well 
enough.” 

“ They make miserable { menages,’ sir,” 
broke in Haggerstone. 

“ But excessively agreeable houses to visit 

at.” 

“ The Onslows are scarcely the people to 
succeed in that way,” rejoined Haggerstone, 
whose thoughts seemed to revolve round this 
family without any power to wander from the 
! theme. “ Mere money, nothing but money to 
guide them.” 

“ Not a bad pilot either, as times go.” 

Haggerstone uttered another short “ Ha !” as 
1 though to enter a protest against the sentiment 
: without the trouble of a refutation. He had 


utterly failed in all his efforts to draw Jekyl into 
a discussion of the banker’s family, or even ob- 
tain from that excessively cautious young gentle- 
man the slightest approach to an opinion about 
them ; and yet it was exactly in search of this 
opinion that he had come down to take his 
walk that evening. It was in the hope that 
Jekyl might afford him some clew to these peo- 
ple’s thoughts, or habits, or their intentions for 
the coming winter, that he had promenaded for 
the last hour and a half. “ If he know any 
thing of them,” thought Haggerstone, “ he will 
be but too proud to show it, and display the in- 
timacy to its fullest extent !” 

It was then, to his utter discomfiture, he 
learned that Jekyl had scarcely spoken to Lady 
Hester, and never even seen Sir Stafford or Miss 
Onslow. It was, then, pure invention of the 
waiter to say that they were acquainted. “ Jekyl 
has done nothing,” muttered he to himself, 
“ and I suppose I need not throw away a dinner 
upon him to tell it.” 

Such were his reasonings; and long did he 
balance in his own mind whether it were worth 
while to risk a bottle of Burgundy in such a 
cause ; for often does it happen that the fluid 
thrown down the pump is utterly wasted, and 
that it is vain to moisten the sucker, if the well 
beneath be exhausted ! 

To be, or not to be, was then the eventful 
point he deliberated with himself. Haggerstone 
never threw away a dinner in his life. He was 
not one of those vulgar-minded folk who ask 
you, in a parenthesis, to come in to “ manger 
la soupe,” as they say, without more prepara- 
tion than the spreading of your napkin. No; 
he knew all the importance of a dinner, and, be 
it acknowledged, how to give it also, and could 
have distinguished perfectly between the fare to 
set before a “ habitual diner out,” and that suit- 
able to some newly-arrived Englishman abroad : 
he could have measured his guest to a truffle ! 
It was his boast that he never gave a pheasant 
when a poulet would have sufficed, nor wasted 
his “ Chablis” on the man who would have been 
contented with “ Barsac.” 

The difficulty was not, then, how to have 
treated Jekyl, but whether to treat him at all. 
Indeed, the little dinner itself had been all plan- 
ned and arranged that morning ; and the “ trout” 
from the “ Moorg,*’ and the grouse from Eber- 
stein, had been “ pricked of,” in the bill of fare, 
for “No. 24,” as he was unceremoniously de- 
signated, with a special order about the dish of 
whole truffles with butter, in the fair intention 
of inviting Mr. Albert Jekyl to partake of 
them. 

If a lady reveals some latent desire of con- 
quest in the coquetry of her costume and the 
more than ordinary care of her appearance, so 
your male friend may be suspected of a design 
upon your confidence or your liberality, by the 
studious propriety of his petit diner. Never fall 
into the vulgar error that such things are mere 
accident. As well ascribe to chance the rota- 
tions of the seasons, or the motions of the beav- 


64 


THE DALTONS': OR, THREE ROADS OF LIFE. 


enly bodies ! Your printanicre in January — 
your epigramme d'agneau with asparagus, at 
Christmas, show a solicitude to please to the full 
as ardent, and not a whit less sincere, than the 
soft glances that have just set your heart a- 
beating from the recesses of yonder opera-box. 

“ Will you eat your cutlet with me to-day, 
Mr. Jekyl ?” said Haggerstone, ; after a pause, 
in which he had weighed long and well all the 
pros and cons of the invitation. 



• , * • .•> n 

'• 'v. 


„ ••• > " -,V ■ v 1 

v . . • y. ..‘ v 

J V ! ?- ‘ ' o -■ '• *'■ 



“ Thanks, but I dine with the Onslows 
lisped out Jekyl, with languid indifference, that 
however did not prevent his remarking the al- 
most incredulous amazement, in the colonel’s 
face; “and I perceive,” added he, “that it’s 
time to dress.” 

Haggerstone looked after him as he left the 
room ; and then ringing the bell violently, gave 
orders to his servant to “ pack up,” for he would 
leave Baden next morning. 


‘ v ‘ \v . * 


.* . : 7 



CHAPTER XVII. 

A FAMILY - DISCUSSION. 


Something more than a week after the scenes 
we have last related had occurred, the Daltons 
were seated around the fire, beside which, in the 
place of honor, in an old arm-chair, propped by 
many a cushion, reclined Hans Roeckle. A 
small lamp of three burners — such as the peas- 
ants use — stood upon the table, of which only 
one was lighted, and threw its fitful gleam over 
the board, covered by the materials of a most 
humble meal. Even this was untasted ; and it 
was easy to mark in the downcast and depressed 
countenances of the group, that some deep care 
was weighing upon them. 

Dalton himself, with folded arms, sat straight 
opposite the fire, his heavy brows closely knit, 
and his eyes staring fixedly at the blaze, as if 
oxpecting some revelation of the future from it ; 
an open letter, which seemed to have dropped 
from his hand, was lying at his feet. Nelly, 
with bent-down head, was occupied in arrang- 
ing the little tools and implements she was 
accustomed to use in carving ; but in the trem- 
ulous motion of her fingers, and the short, 
quick heaving of her chest, might be read the 
signs of a struggle that cost heavily to subdue. 

Half-concealed beneath the projection of the 
fire-place sat Kate Dalton — she was sewing ; 
although to all seeming intent upon her work, 
more than once did her fingers drop the needle 
to wipe the gushing tears from her eyes, while 
at intervals a short sob would burst forth, and 
break the stillness around. 

As for Hans, he seemed lost in a dreamy rev- 
erie, from which he rallied at times to smile 
pleasantly at a little wooden figure — the same 
which occasioned his disaster — placed beside 
him. f ’ • ( 

There w T as an air of sadness over every thing ; 
and even the old spaniel, Joan, as she. retreated 
from the heat of the fire, crept with stealthy 
step beneath the table, as if respecting the 
mournful stillness of the scene. How different 
the picture from what that humble chamber had 
so often presented ! What a contrast to those 
happy evenings, when, as the girls worked, 
Hans would read aloud some of those strange 
mysteries of Jean Paul, or the wild and fanciful 
imaginings of Chamisso, while old Dalton would 
lay down his pipe and break in upon his memo- 
ries of Ireland, to ask at what they were laugh- 
ing, and Frank look up distractedly from his old 
chronicles of German war to join in the mirth ! 
How, at such moments, Hans would listen to 

E 


the interpretation, and with what greedy ears 
follow the versions the girls would give of some 
favorite passage, as if dreading lest its force 
should be weakened or its beauty marred by 
transmission. And then those outbreaks of ad- 
miration that would simultaneously gush forth 
at some sentiment of high and glorious meaning 
— some godlike gleam of bright intelligence, 
which, though clothed in the language of a for- 
eign land, spoke home to their hearts with the 
force that truth alone can speak ! 

Y r es, they were, indeed, happy evenings ! when 
around their humble hearth came thronging the 
groups of many a poet’s fancy — bright pictures 
of many a glorious scene— emotions of hearts 
that seemed to beat in unison with their own. 
They felt no longer the poverty of their humble 
condition — they had no memory for the little 
straits and trials of the by-gone day, as they 
trod with Tieck the alley beneath the lindens 
of some rural village, or sat with Auerbach 
beneath the porch of the Vorsteher’s dwelling. 
The dull realities of life faded before the vivid 
conceptions of fiction, and they imbibed lessons 
of patient submission and trustfulness from those 
brothers and sisters, who are poet’s children. 

And yet — what no darkness of adversity could 
rob them of — the first gleam of what — to worldly 
minds at least — would seem better fortune, had 
already despoiled them. Like the traveler in 
the fable — who had grasped his cloak the faster 
through the storm, but who threw it away when 
the hot rays scorched him — they could brave the 
hurricane, but not face the sunshine. 

The little wooden clock behind the door struck 
nine, and Dalton started up suddenly — 

“ What did it strike, girls?” asked he, quickly. 

“Nine, papa,” replied Kate, in a low voice. 

“ At what hour was he to come for the an- 
swer ?” 

“ At ten,” said she, still lower. 

“ Well, you’d better write it at once,” said 
he, with a peevishness very different from his 
ordinary manner; “they’ve remained here al- 
ready four days — isn’t it four days she says — 
to give us time to make up our minds; we can 
not detain them any longer.” 

“ Lady Hester has shown every consideration 
for our difficulty,” said Kate. “We can not b® 
too grateful for her kindness.” 

“ Tell her so,” said he, bitterly. “ I suppose 
women know when to believe each other?” 

“And what reply am I to make, sir?” sai&‘ 


66 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


she, calmly, as, having put aside her work, she 
took her place at the writing-table. 

“Faith, I don’t care ? ” said he, doggedly. 
“ Nor is it much matter what opinion 1 give. 
I am nobody now ; I have no right to decide 
upon any thing.” 

, “The right and duty are both yours, papa.” 

“ Duty ! So I’m to be taught my duty as well 
as the rest!” said he, passionately. “Don’t 
you think there are some others might remember 
that they have duties also?” 

“ Would that I could fulfill mine as my heart 
dictates them,” said Ellen ; and her lip trembled 
as she spoke the w r ords. 

“ Faith ! I scarce know what’s my duty, with 
all the drilling and dictating I get,” muttered 
he, sulkily. But this I know ; there’s no will 
left me. I dare not budge this side or that, 
without leave.” 

“ Dearest papa, be just to yourself if not to 
me.” . 

“ Isn’t it truth I’m saying ?” continued he, 
his anger rising with every word he spoke. 
“ One day I’m forbid to ask my friends home 
with me to dinner. Another, I’m told I oughtn’t 
to go dine w*ith them. I’m tutored and lectured 
at every hand’s turn. Never a thought crosses 
me, but it’s sure to be wrong. You din into 
my ears, how happy it is to be poor when one’s 
contented.” * 

“ The lesson was yours, dear papa,” said 
Nelly, smiling. “ Don’t disavow r your own 
teaching.” 

“ Well, the more fool me. I know better 
now. But what’s the use of it? When the 
prospect of a little ease and comfort was offered 
to me, you persuaded me to refuse it. Ay, that 
you did ! You began with the old story about 
our happy hearth and contentment ; and where 
is it now?” 

A sob, so low as to be scarcely heard, broke 
from Nelly, and she pressed her hand to her 
heart with a convulsive force. 

“Can you deny it? You made me reject 
the only piece of kindness ever w~as shown me 
in a life long. There was the opportunity of 
spending the rest of my days in peace, and you 
wouldn’t let me take it. And the fool I was to 
listen to you !” 

“ Oh, papa, how you wrong her !” cried 
Kate, as, in a torrent of tears, she bent over his 
chair. Dearest Nelly has no thought but for us. 
Her whole heart is our own.” 

“It you could but see it!” eried Nelly, with 
a thick utterance. 

“ ’Tis a droll way of showing affection, then,” 
said Dalton, “ to keep me a beggar, and you no 
better than a servant-maid. It’s little matter 
about me , I know. I’m old, and w T orn out — a 
reduced Irish gentleman, with nothing but his 
good blood remaining to him. But you , Kate, 
that are young and handsome — ay, faith ! a 
deal sight better looking than my fady herself 
— it’s a little hard that you are to be denied 
what might be your whole fortune in life.” 

n You surely w T ould not ’stake all her hap- 


[ pinqss on the venture, papa ?” said Nelly, 
mildly. 

“ Happiness!” said he, scornfully; “w r hat do 
you call happiness ? Is it dragging out life in 
poverty, like this, w r ifh the proudest friend in 
our list an old toy-maker?” ' 

“ Poor Hanserl !” murmured Nelly, in a low r 
voice ; but, soft as were the accents, the dwarf 
heard them, and nodded his head twice, as 
though to thank her for a recognition, of w T hose 
import he knew nothing. 

“ Just so ! You have pity enough for stran- 
gers, but none for your own people,” said 
Dalton, as he arose and paced the room, the 
very act of motion serving to increase his anger. 
“ He was never used to better ; he’s just w r hat 
he always was. But think of me ! think of the 
expectations I was reared to, the place I used 
to hold, and see me now!” 

“ Dearest, best papa, do not say those bitter 
words,” cried Kate, passionately. “ Our own 
dear Nelly loves us truly. What has her life 
been but self-denial ?” 

“ And have I not had my share of self- 
denial ?” said he, abruptly. “ Is there left a 
single one of the comforts I w r as always accus- 
tomed to ? ’Tis sick I am of hearing about 
submission, and patience, and resignation, and 
the like, and that w r e never w r ere so happy as 
now. Faith ! I tell you, I’d rather have one 
day at Mount Dalton, as it used to be long ago, 
than I’d have twenty years of the life I spend 
here.” 

“ No, papa, no,” said Nelly, winding her arm 
around his w T aist ; “ you’d rather sit at the 
window yonder, and listen to a song from Kate 
— one of your own favorites — or take a stroll 
with us after sunset of a summer’s evening, and 
talk of F rank, than go back to all the gayety of 
that w T ild life you speak of.” 

“Who says so?” asked he, roughly. 

“ You, yourself. Nay, don’t deny it,” said 
she, smiling. 

y If I did, I was wrong, then,” rejoined he, 
pushing her rudely away. “ It was because I 
believed my children were affectionate and fond, 
and that whatever I set my heart on they’d be 
sure to wish just as much as myself.” 

“And when has that time ceased to be?” 
said she, calmly. 

“ What ! when has it ceased to be?” said he, 
sharply. “ Is it you that asks that question — 
you that made me refuse the legacy?” 

“ Nay, papa, be just,” interrupted she, mildly. 
“ The merit of that refusal was all your own. I 
did but explain to you the circumstances under 
which this gift, it was no less, was offered, and 
your own right feeling dictated the reply.” 

Dalton was silent. A struggling sense of 
pride in his imputed dignity of behavior warring 
with the desire of fault-finding. 

“Maybe I did !” said he, at last, self-esteem 
gaining the mastery. “ Maybe I saw my own 
reasons for what I was going to do. A Dalton 
is not the man to mistake what’s due to his 
name and family ; but this is a different case. 


67 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Here’s an invitation, as elegant a piece of polite- 
ness as I have seen, from one our own equal in 
every respect; she calls herself a connection, 
too — we won’t say much about that, for we 
never reckoned the. English relations any thing 
— asking my daughter to join them in their 
visit to Italy. When are we to see the like of 
that again ? Is it every day that some rich 
family will make us the same offer? It’s not 
to cost us a sixpence ; read the letter, and you’ll 
see how nicely it’s hinted, that her ladyship 
takes every thing upon herself. Well, if any 
one objected it might be myself; ’tis on me 
will fall the heaviest part of the blow. It was 
only the other day Frank left me ; now I’m to 
lose Kate ; not but I know very well Nelly will 
do her best.” 

Slight as was the praise, she kissed his hand 
passionately for it ; and it was some seconds ere 
he could proceed. 

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll do all you can; but 
what is it after all? Won’t I miss the songs 
she sings for me ? — won’t I miss her laughing 
voice and her sprightly step?” 

“ And why should you encounter such priva- 
tions, papa?” broke Nelly in. “These are, as 
you justly say, the greatest sources of your hap- 
piness. Why separate from them ? Why rob 
this humble chamber of its fairest ornament ? 
Why darken our hearth by an absence for 
which nothing can requite us?” 

“I’ll tell you why, then,” said he, and a 
sparkling gleam of cunning lit up his eye, as 
the casuistry crossed his mind. “ Just because 
I can deny myself any thing for my children’s 
sake. ’Tis for them I am thinking always. 
Give old Peter Dalton his due, and nobody can 
call him selfish ; not the worst enemy ever he 
had ! Let me feel that my children are bene- 
fited, and you may leave me to trudge along 
the weary path before me.” 

“ Then, there only remains to see if this 
promise of benefit be real,” said Nelly. 

“ And why wouldn’t it ? Doesn’t every body 
know that traveling and seeing foreign parts is 
equal to any education. How many things 
hav’n’t I seen myself since I came abroad, that 
I never dreamed about before I left home ! 
Look at the way the}’- dress the peas — with 
sugar in them. See how they shoe a horse — 
with a leg tied up to a post, as if they were 
going to cut it off. Mind the droll fashion they 
have of fastening a piece of timber to the hind 
wheel of a coach, by way of a drag ! There’s 
no end to their contrivances.” 

“Let us forget every consideration but one,” 
said Nelly, earnestly. “ What are the dangers 
that may beset Kate, in a career of such diffi- 
culty, when, without an adviser, miles away 
from us all, she may need counsel or comfort. 
Think of her in sickness or in sorrow, or, worse 
than both, under temptation. Picture to your- 
self, how dearly bought would be every charm 
of that refinement you covet for her, at the 
price of a heart weakened in its attachment to 
home, bereft of the simple faith that there was 


no disgrace in poverty. Think, above all,” 
cried she — and for the first time her lips trem- 
bled, and her eyes swam — “ think, above all, 
we can not give her up forever ; and yet how is 
she to come back again to these humble for- 
tunes, and the daily toil that she will then 
regard with shame and disgust. I ask not how 
differently shall we appear in her eyes, for I 
know that, however changed her habits, how 
wide soever be the range of thought knowledge 
may have imparted, her fond, true heart will 
still be all our own ; but can you risk her for- 
tunes on an ocean like this ? can you peril all 
her future for so little ?” 

“To hear you talk, Nelly, one might think 
she was going to Jerusalem or Australia; sure, 
after all, it’s only a few days away from us 
she’ll be, and as for the dangers, devil a one of 
them I see. Peter Dalton’s daughter is not 
likely to be ill-treated any where. We were 
always a ‘good warrant’ for taking care of 
our own ; and to make short of it, I wish it, 
and Kate herself wishes it; and I don’t see why 
our hopes should not be as strong as your 
fears.” 

“ You remember, too, papa, that Dr. Groun- 
sell agreed with me, and spoke even more 
strongly than I did against the scheme.” 

“ And didn’t I pay him off for his interfer- 
ence ? Didn’t I give him a bit of my mind 
about it, and tell him that, because a man was 
employed as a doctor in a family that he ought 
not to presume to advise them on their own 
affairs? Faith, I don’t think he’ll trouble 
another patient with his counsel.” 

“We must not forget, sir, that if his counsel 
came unasked, his skill was unrequited ; both 
came from a nature that wished us well.” 

“ The advice and the physic were about the 
same value ; both made me sick ; and so you’re 
like to do if you worry me any longer. I tell you 
now, my mind’s made up, and go she shall !” 

“ Oh, papa, not if dear Nelly thinks — ” 

“ What’s that to me ? don’t I know more of 
the world than she does ? Am I come to this 
time of life to be taught by a slip of a girl that 
never was ten miles out of her home ? Sit 
down there now, and write the answer.” 

There was a stern determination in the way 
these last words were -uttered, that told Nelly 
how fruitless would be all further opposition. 
She had long since remarked, besides, how her 
father’s temper re-acted upon his health, and 
how invariably any prolonged excitement term- 
inated in an attack of gout. Increasing age 
gave to these accesses of malady a character of 
danger, which she already began to remark with 
deep anxiety. Now she saw that immediate 
compliance with his wishes was the only alter- 
native left. 

She seated herself at the table, and prepared 
to write. For some seconds the disturbance of 
her thoughts, the mingled crowd of sensations 
that filled her mind, prevented all power of 
calm consideration ; but the struggle was soon 
over, and she wrote on rapidly. 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


C8 

So silent was the chamber, so hushed was all 
within it, that the scratching noise of the pen 
alone broke the stillness. Speedily glided her 
hand across the paper, on which two heavy 
tears had already fallen — burning drops of sor- 
row that gushed from a levered brain ! A 
whole world of disaster, a terrible catalogue of 
ill, revealed itself before her; but she wrote on. 
She felt that she was to put in motion the series 
of events whose onward course she never could 
control, as though she was to push over a preci- 
pice the rock that in its downward rush would 
carry ruin and desolation along with it ; but she 
wrote on. 

At last she ceased, and all was still ; not a 
sound was heard in the little room, and Nelly 
leaned her head down upon the table and wept. 

But while she wept she prayed — prayed, that 
if the season of trouble her thoughts foreshadow- 
ed should be inevitable, and that if the cup of 
sorrow must, indeed, be drained, that strength 
might be sent them for the effort. It might 
have been that her mind exaggerated the perils 
of separation, and the dangers that would beset 
one of Kate’s temper and disposition. Her own 
bereavement might have impressed her with 
the misery that follows an unhappy attachment ; 
and her reflective nature, shadowed by an early 
sorrow, might have colored too darkly a future 
of such uncertainty. But a deep foreboding, 
like a heavy weight, lay upon her heart, and 
she was powerless to resist it. 

These instincts of our nature are not to be 
undervalued, nor confounded with the weak and 
groundless terrors of the frivolous. The closing 
petals of the flower as the storm draws nigh, 
the wild cry of the sea-bird as the squall is 
gathering, the nestling of the sheep within the 
fold while yet the hurricane has not broke — are 
signs that, to the observant instincts, peril comes 
not unannounced. 

“Shall I read it, papa?” said she, as she 
raised her head, and turned toward him a look 
of calm and beaming affection. 

“ You needn't,” said he, roughly. “ Of 
course, it’s full of all the elegant phrases women 
like to cheat each other with. You said she 
will go; that’s enough.” 

Nelly tried to speak, but the words would 
not come, and she merely nodded an acquies- 
cence. 

“ And, of course, too, you told her ladyship 
that if it wasn’t to a near relation of the family 
— one that had a kind of a right, as I may say, 
to ask her — that I’d never have given my con- 
sent. Neither would I !” 

“ I said that you could give no higher proof 
of your confidence in Lady Hester’s goodness 
and worth, than in committing to her charge all 
that we hold so dear. I spoke of our grati- 
tude,” her voice faltered here, and she hesitated 
for a second or so ; our gratitude ! — strange 
word to express the feeling with which we part 
from what we cling to so fondly ! — “ and I 
asked of her to be the mother of her who had 
none !” 


“Oh, Nelly, I can not go — I can not leave 
you !” burst out Kate, as she knelt down, and 
buried her head in her sister’s lap. “ I feel 
already how weak and unable I am to live 
among strangers, away from you and dear papa. 
I have need of you both !” 

“ May I V never leave this spot if you’re not 
enough to drive me mad !” exclaimed Dalton. 
“ You cried two nights and a day because there 
was opposition to your going. You fretted till 
your eyes were red, and your cheeks all furrowed 
with tears ; and now that you get leave to go — ■ 
now that 1 consent to — to — to sacrifice — ay, to 
sacrifice my domestic enjoyments to your benefit 
— you turn short round and say you won’t go.” 

“Nay, nay, papa,” said Nelly, mildly; “Kate 
but owns with what fears she would consent to 
leave us, and in this shows a more fitting mind 
to brave what may come, than if she went forth 
with a heart brimful of its bright anticipations, 
and only occupied with a future of splendor and 
enjoyment.” 

“ I ask you again, is it into the back woods 
of Newfoundland — is it into the deserts of Arabia 
she’s going?” said Dalton, ironically. 

“ The country before her has perils to the 
full as great, if not greater than either,” rejoined 
Nelly, lowly. 

“ There’s a ring at the bell,” said Dalton, 
perhaps not sorry to cut short a discussion in 
which his own doubts and fears were often at 
variance with his words ; for while opposing 
Nelly with all his might, he was frequently 
forced to coincide secretly with that he so 
stoutly resisted. Vanity alone rose above every 
other motive, and even hardened his heart 
against separation and absence from his favorite 
child. Vanity to think that his daughter would 
be the admired beauty in the salons of the great 
and highly-born — that she would be daily mov- 
ing in a rank the most exalted — that his dear 
Kate would be the attraction of courts — the 
centre of adulation wherever she went. So 
blinded was he by false reasoning, that he ac- 
tually fancied himself a martyr to his daughter’s 
future advancement, and that this inveterate 
egotism was a high and holy self-denial ! “ My 

worst enemy never called me selfish,” was the 
balm that he ever laid on his chafed spirit, and 
always with success. It would, however, have 
been rather the part of friend, than of enemy, to 
have whispered that selfishness was the very 
bane and poison of his nature. It was his im- 
pulse in all the wasteful extravagance of his 
early life. It was his motive in all the strug- 
gles of his adversity. To sustain a mock rank 
— to affect a mock position — to uphold a mock 
standard of gentility, he was willing to submi: 
to a thousand privations of his children ant 
himself; and to gratify a foolish notion of family 
pride, he was ready to endure any thing — even 
to separation from all he held dearest. 

“Lady Hester’s courier has come for the 
answer to her note, papa,” said Nelly, twice 
over, before Dalton heard her, for he was deep 
sunk in his own musincs. 


69 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


u Let him come in and have a glass of wine ” 
said Dalton. “ I’d like to ask him a few ques- 
tions about these people.” 

il Oh, papa!” whispered Nelly, in a tone at 
once so reproachful, that the old man colored 
and looked away. 

“ I meant about what time they were to start 
on the journey,” said he, confusedly. 

“ Lady Hester told us they should leave this 
to-morrow, sir.” <■ 

“ Short notice for us. Ho\^ is Kate to have all 
her clothes packed, and every thing arranged ? 
I don't think that is treating us with much re- 
spect, Nelly.” 

‘‘ They have waited four days for our decision, 
papa — remember that.” 

“Ay, to be sure.' I was forgetting that; 
and she came every day to press' the matter 
more and move; and there was no end to the 
note-writing besides. I must say that nothing 
could beat their politeness. It was a mighty 
nice attention, the old man coming himself to 
call here ; and a fine, hale, good-looking man he 
is ! a better figure than ever his son will be. I 
don’t much like Mr. George, as they call him.” 

“ Somewhat colder and more reserved, I 
think, than the other,” said Nelly. “ But 
about this answer, papa?” 

“ What a hurry they’re in. Is it a return to 
a writ, that they must press for it this way ? 
Well, well, I ought to be used to all manner of 
interruptions and disturbances by this time. 
Fetch me a candle, till I seal it;” and he 
sighed, as he drew forth his old-fashioned 
watch, to which, by a massive steel chain, the 
great family seal was attached, firmly persuad- 
ed that in the simple act he was about to per- 
form, he was achieving a mighty labor, at the 
cost of much fatigue. “ No rest for the wick- 
ed ! as my old father used to say,” muttered he, 
in a happy ignorance whether the philosophy 
emanated from his parent, or from some higher 
authority. “ One would think that at my time 
of life a man might look for a little peace and 
ease ; but Peter Dalton hasn’t such luck ! Give 
me the letter,” said he, querulously. “There 
is Peter Dalton’s hand and seal — his act and 
will,” muttered he, with a half-solemnity, as he 
pressed the wax with his heavy signet. “ ‘ Sem- 
per eadem there’s the ancient motto of our 
house, and faith I believe Counselor O’Shea 
was right when he translated it, ‘ The devil a 
better !’ ” 

He read the address two or three times over 
to himself, as if there was something pleasurable 
in the very look of the words, and then he turned 
his glance toward Hans, as in a dreamy half- 
consciousness he sat still, contemplating the lit- 
tle statue of Margaret. 

“ Isn’t it droll to think we’d be writing to the 
first in the land, and an old toymaker sitting 
beside the fire all the time,” said Dalton, as he 
shook his head thoughtfully, in the firm convic- 
tion that he had uttered a very wise and pro- 
found remark. “ Well — well — well ! Life is 
a queer thing !” 


“Is it not stranger still, that we should have 
won the friendship of poor Hanserl, than have 
attracted the notice of Lady Hester,” said Nelly. 
“ Is it not a prouder thought that we have drawn 
toward us from affectionate interest the kindness 
that has no touch of condescension ?” 

“I hope you are not comparing the two,” 
said Dalton, angrily. “ What’s the creature 
muttering to himself?” 

“ It’s Gretchen’s song he’s trying to remem- 
ber,” said Kate. 

“ Nach ihm nur schau’ ich 
Zum Fenster hinaus !” 

said Hans, in a low, distinct voice. “ ‘ Was 
kommt nach,’ — what comes next, Fraulein?” 

“ You must ask sister Nelly, Hanserl,” said 
Kate ; but Nelly was standing behind the mas- 
sive stove, her face covered with her hands. 

“ * Zum Fenster hinaus,’ ” repeated he, slow- 
ly; “and, then, Fraulein? and then?” 

“ Tell him, Nelly ; tell him what follows ” 

“Nach ihm nur schau' ich 
Zum Fenster hinaus ; 

Nach ihm nur geh’ ich 
Aus dem Haus !” 

repeated she. 

“ Ja, ja !” cried Hans delightedly— 

“Nach ihm nur geh’ ich 
Aus dem Haus !” 

“What does that mean?” said Dalton, with 
impatience. 

“It’s Gretchen’s song, papa,” said Nelly — 

“ His figure I gaze on, 

- ’ O’er and o'er; 

His step I follow 
From the door !” 

“I hope it isn’t in love the creature is,” said 
Dalton ; and he laughed heartily at the conceit, 
turning at the same time his look from the 
dwarf, to bestow a most complacent glance at 
the remains of his own once handsome stature. 
“ Oh, dear ! oh, dear !” sighed he ; “ isn’t it 
wonderful, but there isn’t a creth or a cripple 
that walks the earth that hasn’t a sweetheart!” 

A cough, purposely loud enough to announce 
his presence, here came from the courier in the 
ante-chamber, and Dalton remembered that the 
letter had not yet been dispatched. 

“ Give it to him, Nelly,” said he, curtly. 

She took the letter in her hand, but stood for 
a second or two as if powerless to move. 

“Must it be so, dearest papa,” said she, and 
the words almost choked her utterance. 

Dalton snatched the letter from her fingers, 
and left the room. His voice was heard for an 
instant in conversation with the courier, and 
the moment after the door banged heavily, and 
all was still. 

“ It is done, Kate !” said she, throwing her 
arms around her sister’s neck. “ Let us now 
speak of the future ; we have much to say, and 
short time to say it ; and first let us help poor 
Hans down stairs.” 

The dwarf, clutching up the wooden image, 
suffered himself to be aided with all the sub- 


70 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


missiveness of a patient child, and, with one at 
either side of him, slowly crept down the stairs 
to his own chamber. Disengaging himself by 
a gentle effort as he gained his door, Hans re- 
moved his cap from his head and made a low 
and deep obeisance to each of the girls separate- 
ly, while he bade them a good night. 

“ Leb wohl, Hanserl, Leb wohl !” said Kate, 
taking his hand affectionately. “ Be ever the 
true friend that thou hast proved hitherto, and 
let me think of thee, when far away, with 
gratitude.” 

“ Why this ? How so, Fraulein ?” said 
Hans, anxiously ; “ why farewell ? why say’st 
thou Leb wohl, when it is but ‘good night?’ ” 

“ Kate is about to leave us for a short space,” 
said Nelly, affecting to appear at ease and calm. 
“ She is going to Italy, Hanserl.” 

“ Das schone Land ! that lovely land,” mut- 
tered he, over and over. “Dahin, dahin,” cried 
he, pointing with his finger to the southward, 
“ where the gold orange blooms. There would 
I wander, too.” 

“ You’ll not forget me, Hanserl,” said the 
young girl, kindly. 

“ Over the great Alps and away !” said 
Hans, still talking to himself; “over the high 
snow peaks which cast their shadows on our cold 
land, but have terraces for the vine and olive-gar- 
den yonder ! Thou’lt leave us, then, Fraulein ?” 

“ But for a little while, Hans, to come back 
afterward and tell thee all I have seen.” 


“ They come not back from the sunshine to 
the shade,” said Hans, solemnly. “ Thou’lt 
leave not the palace for the peasant’s hut ; but 
think of us, Fraulein, think sometimes, when 
the soft sirocco is playing through thy glos- 
sy hair — when sounds of music steal over thy 
senses among the orange groves, and near the 
shadows of old temples — think of this simple 
Fatherland and its green valleys. Think of 
them with whom thou wert so happy, too ! 
Splendor thou mayst have — it is thy beauty’s 
right; but be not proud, Fraulein. Remember 
what Chamisso tells us, ‘ Das Noth lehrt beten,’ 
‘ Want teaches Prayer,’ and to that must thou 
come, however high thy fortune.” 

“ Kate will be our own wherever she be,” 
said Nelly, clasping her sister affectionately to 
her side. 

“Bethink thee well, Fraulein, in thy wan- 
derings, that the great and the beautiful are 
brethren of the good and the simple. The 
cataract and the dewdrop are kindred ! Think 
of all that teacheth thee to think of home ; and 
remember well, that when thou losest the love 
of this humble hearth thou art in peril. If to 
any of thy childish toys thou sayst, ‘ Ich liebe 
dich nicht mehr,’ then art thou changed indeed.” 
Hans sate down upon his little bed as he spoke, 
and covered his face with his hands. 

Nelly watched him silently for a few seconds, 
and then with a gentle hand closed the door and 
led Kate away. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

CARES AND CROSSES. 


The lamp in Kate Dalton’s chamber was still 
burning, when the morning dawned, and by its 
uncertain flicker might be seen the two sisters, 
who, clasped in each other’s arms, sat upon the 
low settle-bed. Nelly, pale and motionless, 
supported Kate, as, overcome by watching and 
emotion, she had fallen into a heavy slumber. 
Not venturing to stir, lest she should awaken 
her, Nelly had leaned against the wall for sup- 
port, and in her unmoved features and deathly 
pallor, seemed like some monumental figure of 
sorrow. 

It was not alone the grief of an approaching 
separation that oppressed her ; sad as it was to 
part from one to whom she had been mother and 
sister too, her affliction was tinged with a deeper 
coloring in her fears for the future. Loving 
Kate dearer than any thing in the world, she 
was alive to all the weak traits of her character ; j 


her credulity — her trustfulness — her fondness 
for approbation even from those whose judg- 
ments she held lightly — her passion for admira- 
tion even in trifles — were well known to her ; 
and while, perhaps, these very failings, like 
traits of childish temperament, had actually en- 
deared her the more to Nelly, she could not but 
dread their effect when they came to be exer- 
cised in the world of strangers. 

Not that Nelly could form the very vaguest 
conception of what that world was like. Its 
pleasures and its perils, its engagements and 
hazards, were all unknown to her. It had never 
been even the dream-land of her imagination. 
Too humble in spirit, too lowly by nature, to 
feel companionship with the great and titled, 
she had associated all her thoughts with those 
j whose life is labor ; with them were all her 
{ sympathies. There was a simple beauty in the 


71 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


unchanging fortune of the peasant’s life — such 
as she had seen in the Sch’warzwald, for instance 
— that captivated her. That peaceful domes- 
ticity was the very nearest approach to happiness, 
to her thinking, and she longed for the day when 
her father might consent to the obscurity and 
solitude of some nameless “Dorf” in the dark 
recesses of that old forest. With Frank and 
Kate such a lot would have been a paradise. 
But one was already gone, and she was now to 
lose the other too. “ Strange turn of fortune,” 
as she said, “ that prosperity should be more 
cruel than advei'sity. In our days of friendless 
want and necessity we held together ; it is only 
when the promise of brighter destinies is dawn- 
ing that we separate.” 

“ It is but selfishness after all,” thought she, 
“ to wish for an existence like this ; such hum- 
ble and lowly fortunes might naturally enough 
become ‘ lame Nelly ;’ but Frank, the high- 
hearted, daring youth, with ambitious hopes and 
soaring aspirations, demands another and a dif- 
ferent sphere of action; and Kate, whose at- 
tractions would grace a court, might well sor- 
row over a lot of such ignoble obscurity. What 
would not my sorrow and self-reproach be if I 
saw, that, in submitting to the tame monotony 
of this quietude, they should have become wea- 
ried and careless — neither taking pleasure in 
the simple pastimes of the people, nor stooping 
to their companionship, and thus all may be for 
the best,” said she, half aloud, “ if I could but 
feel courage to think so. We may each of us 
be but following his true road in life.” 

A long intimacy with affliction will very fre- 
quently be found to impress even a religiously- 
disposed mind with a strong tinge of fatalism. 
The apparent hopelessness of all effort to avert 
calamity, or stem the tide of evil fortune, often 
suggests, as its last consolation, the notion of a 
pre-determined destiny, to which we are bound 
to submit with patient trustfulness; a temper- 
ament of great humility aids this conviction. 
Both of these conditions were Nelly’s ; she had 
“ supped sorrow” from her cradle, while her 
estimate of herself was the very lowest possible. 
“ I suppose it is so,” said she again, “ all is for 
the best.” 

She already pictured to herself the new 
spring this change of fortune would impart to 
her father’s life — with what delight he would 
read the letters from his children — how he 
would once more, through them, taste of that 
world whose pleasures he was so fondly attached 
to. “ I never could have yielded him a grati- 
fication like this,” said Nelly, as the tears rose 
in her eyes. “ I am but the image of our fallen 
fortunes, and in me, ‘ poor lame Nelly,’ he can 
but see reflected our ruined lot. All is for the 
best, it must be so,” sighed she, heavily; and 
just as the words escaped, her father, with 
noiseless step, entered the chamber. 

“ To be sure it is, Nelly, darling,” said he, 
as he sat down near her, u and glad I am that 
you’ve come to reason at last. ’Tis plain 
enough this isn’t the way the Daltons ought to 


be passing their life in a little hole of a place 
without society or acquaintance of any kind. 
You and I may bear it, not but it’s mighty hard 
upon me sometimes, too ; but Kate there, just 
look at her and say, is it a girl like that should 
be wasting away her youth in a dreary village ? 
Lady Hester tells me, and sure nobody should 
know better, that there never was the time in 
the world when real beauty had the same 
chance as now, and I’d like to see the girl that 
could stand beside her. Do you know, Nelly,” 
here he drew closer, so as speak in a whisper — 
“ do you know that I do be fancying the strang- 
est things might happen to us yet — that Frank 
might be a great general, and Kate married to 
God knows what sort of a grandee, with money 
enough to redeem Mount Dalton, and lay my 
old bones in the church-yard with my ancestors ! 
I can’t get it out of my head, but it will come 
about somehow. What do you think your- 
self?” 

“ I’m but an indifferent castle-builder, papa,” 
said she, laughing softly. “ I rarely attempt 
any thing beyond a peasant hut or a shealing.” 

“ And nobody could make the one or the 
other more neat and comfortable, that I’ll say 
for you, Nelly. It would have a look of home 
about it before vou were a day under the 
roof !” 

The young girl blushed deeply ; for, humble 
as the praise might have sounded to other ears, 
to hers it was the most touching she could have 
listened to. 

“ I’m not flattering you a bit. ’Tis your 
own mother you take after ; you might put her 
down in the bleakest spot of Ireland, and ’tis a 
garden she’d make it. Let her stop for shelter 
in a cabin, and before the shower was over 
you’d not know the place. It would be all 
swept and clean, and the dishes ranged neatly 
on the dresser ; and the pig — she couldn’t abide 
a pig — turned out, and the hens driven into the 
cowshed, and the children’s faces washed, and 
their hair combed, and maybe, the little gossoon 
of five years old upon her knee, saying his 1 Hail 
Mary,’ or his £ A B C,’ while she was teaching 
his mother how to wind the thread off the wheel, 
for she could spin a hank of yarn as well as any 
cottier’s wife in the townland ! The kind creat- 
ure she was ! But she never had a taste for 
real diversion ; it always made her low-spirited 
and sad.” 

“ Perhaps the pleasures you speak of were 
too dearly purchased, papa,” said Nelly. 

“Indeed, maybe they were,” said he, dubi- 
ously, .and as though the thought had now oc- 
curred for the first time ; “ and now that you 
say it, I begin to believe it was that same that 
might have fretted her. The way she was 
brought up, too, made her think so too. That 
brother was always talking about wastefulness 
and extravagance, and so on ; and, if it was in 
her nature, he’d have made her as stingy as 
himself; and look what it comes to after all. 
We spent it when we had it, the Daltons are a 
good w r arrant for that, and there was he grub- 


72 


THE DALTONS : OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


bing and grabbing all his days, to leave it after 
him to a rich man, that doesn’t know whether 
he has so many thousands more or not.” 

Nelly made no reply, not wishing to encour- 
age, by the slightest apparent interest, the con- 
tinuance on the theme, which invariably sug- 
gested her father’s gloomiest reveries. 

“Is that her trunk, Nelly?” said Dalton, 
breaking silence after a long interval, and point- 
ing to an old and journey- worn valise, that lay 
half open upon the floor. 

“ Yes, papa,” said Nelly, with a sigh. 

“Why, it’s a mean-looking, scrubby bit of a 
thing ; sure, it’s not the size of a good tea- 
chest !” said he, angrily. 

“ And yet too roomy for all its contents, 
papa. Poor Kate’s wardrobe is a very humble 
one.” 

“ I’d like to know where’s the shops here ? 
where’s the milliners and the haberdashers? 
Are we in College Green or Grafton-street. 
that we can just send out and have every thing 
at our hand’s turn ? ’Tisn’t on myself I spend 
the money. Look at these gaiters : they’re nine 
years old next March ; and the coat on my back 
was made by Peter Stevens, that’s in his grave 
now ! The greatest enemy ever I had could 
not face me down that I only took care of my- 
self. If that was my way, would I be here 
now ? See the rag I’m wearing round my 
throat, a piece of old worsted like a rug, a 
thing — ” 

He stopped, and stammered, and then was 
silent altogether, for he suddenly remembered 
it was Nelly herself who had worked the article 
in question. u 

“ Nay, papa,” broke she in, w T ith her own 
happy smile ; “ you may give it to Andy to- 
morrow, for I’ve made you a smart new one, of 
your own favorite colors, too, the Dalton green 
and white. 

“ Many a time I’ve seen the same colors 
coming in first on the Corralin course !” cried 
Dalton, with enthusiasm ; for, at the impulse of 
a new word, his mind could turn from a topic 
of deep and painful interest to one in every way 
its opposite. “ You were too young to remem- 
ber it ; but you were there, in the ‘ landau,’ 
with your mother, when Baithershin won the 
Murra handicap, the finest day’s flat racing — I 
have it from them that seen the best in England 
— that ever was run in the kingdom. I won 
eight hundred pounds on it, and, by the same 
token, lost it all in the evening at ‘ blind hookey,’ 
with old Major Haggs, of the 5th Foot — not 
to say a trifle more besides. And that’s her 
trunk!” said he, after another pause, his voice 
dropping at the words, as though to say, “What 
a change of fortune is there!” “I wonder 


neither of you hadn’t the sense to take my old 
traveling-chest, that’s twice the size, and as 
heavy as a lead eoflin besides. Sorrow one 
would ever know if she hadn’t clothes for a 
whole lifetime! Two men wouldn’t carry it 
up-stairs when it’s empty.” 

“When even this valise is too large, papa?” 

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” broke in Dalton; 
“ you’ve no contrivance, after all. Don’t you 
see that it’s not what’s inside I’m talking about 
at all, but the show before the world. Didn’t I 
live at Mount Dalton with the fat of the land, 
and every comfort a gentleman could ask, five 
years and eight months after I was ruined ? 
And had’nt I credit wherever I went, and for 
whatever I ordered ? And why ? Because of 
the house and place ! I was like the big trunk 
beyond ; nobody knew how little there was in it. 
Oh, Nelly, dear, when you’ve seen as much of 
life as me, you’ll know that one must be up to 
many a thing for appearance’ sake.” 

Nelly sighed, but made no reply. Perhaps 
in secret she thought how much trouble a little 
sincerity with the world would save us. 

“ We’ll be mighty lonesome after her,” said 
he, after a pause. 

Nelly nodded her head in sadness. 

“ I was looking over the map last night, and 
it ain’t so far away, after all,” said Dalton. 
“ ’Tisn’t much more than the length of my fin- 
ger on the paper.” 

“Many a weary mile may lie within that 
space,” said Nelly, softly. 

“ And I suppose we’ll hear from her every 
week, at least?” said Dalton, whose mind vacil- 
lated between joy and grief, but still looked for 
its greatest consolations from without. 

Poor Nelly was, however, little able to fur- 
nish these. Her mind saw nothing but sorrow 
for the present; and, for the future, difficulty, 
if not danger. 

“You give one no comfort at all,” said Dal- 
ton, rising impatiently. “ That’s the way it 
will be always now, when Kate goes. No 
more gayety in the house — not a song, nor a 
merry laugh ! I see well what a dreary life 
there is before me.” 

“ Oh, dearest papa, I’ll do my very best, not 
to replace her, for that I never could do, but to 
make your days less wearisome. It will bo 
such pleasure, too, to talk of her, and think of 
her ! to know of her happiness, and to fancy all 
the fair stores of knowledge she will bring' back 
with her, when she comes home at last !” 

“ It I could only live to see them back again, 
Frank and Kate, one at each side of me, that’s 
all I ask for in this world now,” muttered he, 
as he stole noiselessly away, and closed the door 
behind him. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE PREPARATION FOR THE ROAD. 


If the arrival of a great family at a hotel be 
a scene of unusual bustle and excitement, with 
teeming speculations as to the rank and the 
wealth of "the new comers, the departure has 
also its interests, and even of a higher nature. 
In the former case all is vague, shadowy, and 
uncertain; the eye of the spectator wanders 
from the muffled figures as they descend, to 
scrutinize the lackeys, and even the luggage, as 
indicative of the strangers’ habits and condition ; 
and even to the shrewd perceptions of that 
dread functionary — the head-waiter — the ident- 
ity of the travelers assumes no higher form, nor 
any more tangible shape, than that they are 
No. 42, or 57 ! 

When the hour of leave-taking has come, 
however, their characters have become known 
— their tastes and habits understood, and no 
mean insight obtained into their prejudices, 
their passions, and their pursuits. The impos- 
ing old gentleman, whose rubicund nose and 
white waistcoat are the guarantees for a taste 
in port, has already inspired the landlord with 
a sincere regard. “My lady’s” half-invalid 
caprices about diet, and air, and sunshine, have 
all written themselves legibly in “the bill.” 
The tall son’s champagne-score, incurred of a 
night, and uncounted of a morning, are not un- 
recorded virtues, while even the pale young 
ladies, whose sketching propensities involved 
donkeys, and ponies, and pie-nics, go not unre- 
membered. 

Their hours of rising and retiring — their 
habits of society or reclusion — their preferences 
for the Post or the Times , have all silently been 
ministering to the estimate formed of them, so 
that in the commonest items of the hotel ledger 
are the materials for their history. And with 
what true charity are their characters weighed ! 
How readily does mine host forgive the trans- 
gressions which took their origin in his own 
Burgundy — how blandly smile at the follies be- 
gotten of his Johannisberg ! With what angelic 
temper does the hostess pardon the little liber- 
ties “young gentlemen from college will take !” 
Oh ! if our dear, dear friends would but read us 
with half the charity, or even bestow upon our 
peccadilloes a tithe of this forgiveness! And 
why should it not be so ? What are these 
same friends and acquaintances but guests in 
the same great inn which we call “ the world 
and who, as they never take upon them to 
settle our score, need surely not trouble them- 
selves about the “ items.” 


While the Daltons were still occupied in the 
manner our last chapter has described, the 
“ Hotel de Russie” was a scene of considerable 
bustle ; the preparations for departure engaging 
every department of the household within doors 
and without. There were carriage-springs to 
be lashed with new cordage — drag-chains new 
tipped with steel — axles to smear — hinges to 
oil — imperials to buckle on — cap-cases to be 
secured — and then what a deluge of small arti- 
cles to be stowed away in most minute recesses, 
and yet be always at hand when called for. 
Cushions and cordials, and “ ehauffe-pieds,” 
and "Quarterlies,” smelling-boxes, and slippers, 
and spectacles, and cigar-cases, journals, and 
“John Murray’s” — to be disposed of in the 
most convenient places. Every corridor and 
landing was blocked up with baggage, and the 
courier wiped his forehead, and “sacred” in 
half desperation at the mountain of trunks and 
portmanteaus that lay before him. 

“This is not ours !” said he, as he came to a 
very smart valise of lackered leather, with the 
initials A. J. in brass on the top. 

“No; that’s Mr. Jekyl’s,” said Mr. George’s 
man, Twig; ‘he ain’t a-goin’ with you — he 
travels in our britska.” 

“ I’m more like de conducteur of a diligence 
than a family courier,” muttered the other, 
sulkily. “ I know nothing of de baggage, since 
we take up strangers at every stage ! and al- 
ways arme Teufeln — poor devils — that have not 
a sous en poche !” 

“ What’s the matter, now Mr. Greg’ry ?” 
said Twig, who very imperfectly understood 
the other’s jargon. 

“The matter is, I will resign my ‘fonction’ 
— je m’en vais — dat’s all ! This is noting bes- 
ser than an ‘Eilwagen’ mit passengers! Fust 
of all we have de doctor, as dey call him — wid 
his stuff birds and beasts, his dried blumen and 
sticks, till de roof is like de Jardin des Plantes, 
at Paris, and he himself like de bear in de mid- 
dle; den we have das verfluchte parroquet of 
milady, and Flounce, de lap-dog, that must 
drink evei'y post-station, and run up all de hills 
for exercise ! Dam ! Ich bin kein Hund, and 
needn’t run up de hills too ! Mademoiselle 
Celestine have a — what d’ye call ‘affe?’ — a 
ape! and though he be little, a reg’lar teufel- 
chen to hide the keys and de money, when he 
find ’em ; and den there is de vong lady col- 
lectin’ all de stones off de road — lauter paving 
stones — which she smash wid a leetle hammer ! 


74 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN' LIFE. 


Ach Gott — what is de world grow, when a 
Fraulein fall in love wid Felsen and Steine ?” 

‘•Monsieur Gregoire! Monsieur Gregoire !” 
screamed out a sharp voice from a window over 
head. 

“ Mademoiselle f” replied he, politely touch- 
ing his cap to the femme-de-chambre. 

“ Be good enough, Monsieur Gregoire, tb 
have my trunks taken down — there are two in 
the fourgon, and a cap-case on the large car- 
riage.” r 

“ Hagel and Sturm — they are under every 
thing. How am I — ?” 

“I can’t possibly -Bay,” broke she in, “but it 
must be done !” 

“Can’t you wait, Mademoiselle, till we reach 
Basle?” 

“ I’m going away, Monsieur Gregoire. I’m 
off to Paris j” was the reply, as the speaker 
closed the sash and disappeared. 

“What does she say?” inquired Twig, who, 
as this dialogue was carried on in French, was 
in total ignorance of its meaning. 

“ She have given her ‘ demission,’ ” said the 
courier, pompously — “resign her , portefeuille, 
and she have made a very bad affair ! dat’s all. 
Your gros miloi', is very often bien bete — he is 
very often rude, savage, forget his manners, and 
all dat. But,” — and here his voice swelled 
into the full soundness of a perfect connection — 
“ but he is alway rich. Ja — ja. Immer reich!” 
said he over to himself. “ Allons ! now to get 
at her verdammte baggage ! de two trunks, 
and de leetle box, and de ape, and de sac, and 
de four or five baskets ! Diable d’ affaire ! 
Monsieur Tig, do me the grace to mount on 
high, dere, and give me dat box.” 

“ I’ve nothing to say to your carriage, Mister 
Greg’ry ; I’m tho captain’s gentleman, and 
never do take any but a single-handed situa- 
tion;” and, with this very haughty speech, Mr. 
Twig lighted a fresh cigar and strolled away. 

“ Alle bose Teufeln holen de good for nichts,” 
sputtered Gr6goire, who now waddled into the 
house to seek for assistance. 

Whatever apathy and indifference he might 
have met with from the English servants, the 
people of the hotel were like his bond-slaves. 
Old and young, men and women, the waiter and 
the ostler, and the chamber-maid — and that 
strange species of grande utilite , which in Ger- 
man households goes by the name of “ Haus- 
knecht” — a compound of boots, scullion, porter, 
pimp, and drudge — were all at his command. 
Nor was he an over-mild monarch ; a running 
fire of abuse and indignity accompanied every 
order he gave, and he stimulated their alacrity 
by the most insulting allusions to their personal 
defects and deficiencies. 

Seated upon a capacious cap-case, with his 
courier’s cap set jauntily on one side, his meer- 
schaum like a sceptre in his hand, Gregoire gave 
out his edicts right royally ; and soon the court- 
yard was strewn with trunks, boxes, and bags, 
of every shape, size, and. color. The scene, 
indeed, was not devoid of tumult; for, while 


each of the helpers screamed away at the top 
of his throat, and Gregoire rejoined in shouts 
that would have done credit to a bull, the parrot 
gave vent to the most terrific cries and yells as 
the ape poked him through the bars of his cage 
with the handle of a parasol. 

“There, that’s one of them,” cried out Mon- 
sieur Gregoire, “ that round box beside you ; 
down with it here.” 

“ Monsieur Gregoire — Monsieur Gregoire, ” 
cried Mademoiselle from the window once more,. 

The courier looked up, and touched his 
cap. 

> “ I’m not going, Monsieur Gregoire ; the 
affair is arranged.” 

“ Ah ! I am charmed to hear it, Mademoi- 
selle,” said he, smiling in seeming ecstasy, 
while he muttered a malediction between his 
teeth. 

“ Miladi has made submission, and I forgive 
every thing. You must pardon all the trouble 
I’ve given you.” 

“ These happy tidings have made me forget 
it,” said he, with a smile that verged upon a 
grin. “Peste!” growled he, under his breath, 
“we’d unpacked the whole fourgon.” 

“Ah que vous etes aimable !” said she, 
sighing. 

“ Belle tigresse !” exclaimed he, returning 
the leer she bestowed, and the window was 
once more closed upon her exit. 

“ I submitted to the labor, in the hope we 
had done with you forever !” said he wiping his 
forehead ; “ and la voila — there you are — back 
again. Throw that ape down ; away with him, 
cursed beast,” cried he, venting his spite upon 
the minion, since he dared not attack the mis- 
tress. “ But what have we here ?” 

This latter exclamation was caused by tho 
sudden entrance into the court-yard of two 
porters, carrying an enormous trunk, whose 
iron fastenings and massive padlock gave it the 
resemblance of an emigrant’s sea-chest. A few 
paces behind walked Mr. Dalton, followed again 
by old Andy, who, with a huge oil-silk umbrella 
under one arm, and a bundle of cloaks, shawls, 
and hoods on the other, made his way with no 
small difficulty. 

Gregoire surveyed the procession with cool 
amazement, and then, with a kind of mock- 
civility, he touched his cap, and said, “ You 
have mistak de road, saar; de diligenz-office is 
over de way.” 

“ And who told you I wanted it?” said Dal- 
ton, sternly. “ Maybe, I’m just whero I ought 
to be ! Isn’t this Sir Stafford Onslow’s coach?” 

“ Yes, saar ; but you please to remember, it 
is not de 1 Eilwagen.’ ” 

O l 

“ Just hold your prate, my little chap, and it 
will be pleasanter, and safer — ay, safer, too, dy’e 
mind. You see that trunk there; it’s to go up 
with the luggage, and be kept dry, for there’s 
valuable effects inside.” 

“Dat is not a trunk: it is a sentry-house, a 
watsch-box ; no gentleman’s carriage ever sup- 
port a ting of dat dimension !” 


75 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


It s a trunk, and belongs to me, and ray 
name is Peter Dalton, as the letters there will 
show you ; and so no more about it, but put it 
up at once,” 

l ' I have de orders about a young lady’s lug- 
gage, but none about a great coffin, with iron 
hoops,'' said Gregoire, tartly. 

u Be quiet, now, and do as I tell you, my lit- 
tle chap. Put these trifles, too, somewhere in- 
side ; and this umbrella in a safe spot ; and 
here's a little basket, with a cold pie and a 
bottle of wine in it.” 

Himmel und Erde ! how you tink milady 
travel mit dass schweinerei ?” 

“It’s not pork; ’tis mutton, and a pigeon in 
the middle,” said Dalton, mistaking his meaning. 

' I brought a taste of cheese, too, but it’s a trifle 
high, and maybe it’s as well not to send it.” 

‘‘Is the leetle old man to go too?” asked 
Gregoire, with an insolent grin, and not touch- 
ing the profanation of either cheese or basket. 

; “ That’s my own servant, and he’s not going,” 

said Dalton ; “ and now that you know my orders, 
just stir yourself a little, my chap, for I’m not 
going to spend my time here with you.” 

A very deliberate stax'e, without uttering a 
word, was all the reply Gregoire returned to 
this speech ; and then addressing himself to the 
helpers, he gave some orders in German about 
the other trunks. Dalton waited patiently for 
some minutes ; but no marks of attention show- 
ed that the courier even remembered his pres- 
ence, and at last he said, 

“ I’m waiting to see that trunk put up ; d’ye 
hear me?” - „ 

“ I hear ver well, but I mind nothing at all,” 
said Gregoire, with a grin. 

“ Oh ! that’s it,” said Dalton, smiling, but 
with a twinkle in his gray eyes, that, had the 
other known him better, he would scarcely have 
fancied. “That’s it, then!” and taking the 
umbrella from beneath Andy’s arm, he walked 
deliberately across the yard, to where a large 
tank stood, and which, fed from a small jet-d'ean, 
served as a watering-place for the post-horses. 
Some taper rods of ice now stood up in the midst, 
and a tolerably thick coating covered the surface 
of the basin. 

Gregoire could not help watching the pro- 
ceedings of the stranger, as with the iron-shod 
umbrella he smashed the ice in one or two 
places, piercing the mass till the water spouted 
up through the apertures. 

“ Have you any friend who live dere ?”. said 
the courier, sneeringly, as the ^ound of the 
blows resembled the noise of a door knocker. 

“ Not exactly, my man,” said Dalton, calmly; 
M but something like it.” 

“What is’t you do, then?” asked Gregoire, 
curiously. 

“I’ll tell you,” said Dalton, “I’m breaking 
the ice for a new acquaintance,” and, as he 
spoke, he seized the courier by the stout leather 
belt which he wore around his waist, and, not- 
withstanding his struggles and his weight, he 
jerked him off the ground, and, with a swing, 


would have hurled him head foremost into the 
tank, when, the leather giving way, he fell 
heavily to the ground, almost senseless from 
shock and fright together. 

“ You may thank that strap for your escape,” 
said Dalton, contemptuously, as he threw to- 
ward him the fragments of broken leather. 

“ I will have de Law, and the Polizei, and 
de Gericht. I will have you in de Kerker, in 
chains, for dis !” screamed Gregoire, half-ehok- 
ed with passion. 

“ May I never see peace, but if you don’t 
hold you prate I’ll put you in it ! Sit up there, 
and mind your business ; and, above all, be civil, 
and do what you’re bid.” 

“ I will fort ; I will away. Noting make me 
remain in de service,” said Gregoire, brushing 
off the dirt from his sleeve, and shaking his 
cap. “ I am respectable courier — travel wid do 
Fiirsten von Koniglichen Hausen — mit Russen, 
Franzosen, Ostereichen ; never mit Barbaren, 
never mit de wilde Animalen.” 

“Don’t, now; don’t, I tell you,” said Dalton, 
with another of those treacherous smiles whose 
expression the courier began to comprehend. 
“ No balderdash ! no nonsense ! but go to your 
work, like a decent servant.” 

“ I am no Diener ; no serve any body,” cried 
the courier, indignantly. . v 

But somehow there was that in old Dalton’s 
face that gave no encouragement to an open 
resistance, and Monsieur Gregoire knew well 
the case where compliance was the wisest 
policy. He also knew that in his vocation 
there lay a hundred petty vengeances more than 
sufficient to pay off any indignity that could be 
inflicted upon him. “I will wait my time3,” 
was the reflection with which he soothed down 
his rage, and affected to forget the insult he had 
just suffered under. 

Dalton, whose mind was cast in a very differ- 
ent mould, and who could forgive either himself 
or his neighbor, without any great exertion of 
temper, turned now coolly away, and sauntered 
out into the street. The flush of momentary 
anger that colored his cheek had fled, and a cast 
of pale and melancholy meaning sat upon his 
features, for his eye rested on the little wooden 
bridge which crossed the stream, and where 
now two muffled figures were standing, that ho 
recognized as his daughters. 

They were leaning on the balustrade, and 
gazing at the mountain, that, covered with its 
dense pine wood, rose abruptly from the river 
side. It had been the scene of many a happy 
ramble in the autumn, of many a delightful ex- 
cursion, when, with Frank, they used to seek 
for fragments of wood that suited Nelly’s sculp- 
ture. How often had they carried their little 
basket up yonder steep path, to eat their hum- 
ble supper upon the rock, from which the set- 
ting sun could be seen. There was not a cliff 

c5 

nor crag, nor a mossy slope, not a grass bank, 
they did not know; and now, as they looked, 
all the past moments of pleasure were crowd- 
ing upon their memory, tinged with the sad 


76 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


foreboding that they were never again to be 
renewed. 

“ That’s the ‘ Riesen Fels,’ Nell)' - , yonder,” 
said Kate, as she pointed to a tall dark roc-k. 
on whose slopes the drifting snow had settled. 
“ How sad and dreary it is, compared to what it 
seemed on Frank’s birthday, when the nightin- 
gale was singing overhead, and the trickling 
stream came sparkling along the grass, when 
we sat together. I can bear to part with it 
better thus, than if all were as beautiful as 
then.”’ 

Nelly sighed, and grasped her sister’s hand 
closer, but made no answer. 

“ Do you remember poor Hanserl’s song, and 
his little speech about our all meeting there 
again in the next year, Nelly ?” 

“ I do,” said Nelly, in a low and whispering 
voice. 

“ And when Frank stood up, with the little 
gilt goblet, and said, r, 

‘ With hearts as free from grief or care, 
Here’s to our happy — ’ 

' Wiederkehr,’ cried Hanserl, supplying the word 
so aptly ; how we all laughed, Nelly, at his 
catching the rhyme?” 

“ I remember !” sighed Nelly, still lower. 

“ What are you thinking of, Nelly, dearest?” 
said Kate, as she stood for a few seconds gaz- 
ing at the sorrow-struck features of the other. 

“I was thinking, dearest,” said Nelly, “that 
when we were met together there on that night, 
that none of us foresaw what since has hap- 
pened. Not the faintest suspicion of a separa- 
tion crossed our minds. Our destinies, what- 
ever else might betide, seemed, at least, bound 
up together. Our very poverty was like the 
guarantee of our unity, and yet see what has 
come to pass — Frank gone; you, Kate, going 
to leave us now — how shall we speculate on 
the future, then, when the past has so betrayed 
us ? How pilot our course in the storm, when, 
even in the calm still sea, we have wandered 
from the track?” 

“Nelly! Nelly! every moment I feel more 
faint-hearted at the thought of separation. It 
is as though, in the indulgence of a mere caprice, 
I were about to incur some great hazard. Is it 
thus it appears to you?” 

“ With what expectations do you look forward 
to this great world you are going to visit, Kate ? 
Is it mere curiosity to see with your own eyes 
the brilliant scenes of which you have only 
read? Is it with the hope of finding that ele- 
gance and goodness are sisters, that refinement 
of manners is the constant companion of noble 
sentiments and right actions ; or does there lurk 
in your heart the longing for a sphere wherein 
you yourself might contest for the prize of ad- 
miration ? Oh ! if this have a share in your 
wishes, my own dear sister, beware of it. The 
more worthy you are of such homage, the 
greater is your peril ! It is not that I am re- 
moved from all temptations of this kind ; it is 
not because I have no attractions of beauty, 


that I speak thus — even poor lame Nelly can 
not tear from her woman’s heart the love of 
admiration. But for you , I fear — for you, Kate, 
to whom these temptations will be heightened 
by your own deservings. You are beautiful, 
and you blush as I speak the word ; but what 
if the time come when you will hear it unmoved 
— the modest sense of shame gone, what will 
replace it ? Pride ! yes, my dear sister, pride 
and ambition ! You will long for a station more 
in accordance with your pretensions, more suited 
to your tastes.” 

“ How you wrong me, Nelly !” burst Kate in. 
“ The brightest dream of all this brilliant future 
is the hope that I may come back to you more 
worthy of your love ; that, imbibing some of 
those traits whose fascinations we have already 
felt, I may bring beneath our humble roof some 
memories, at least, to beguile your toil.” 

“ Oh, if that time should come !” 

“ And it will come, dearest Nelly,” said Kate, 
as she threw her arms around her, and kissed 
her affectionately. “ But, see ! there is papa 
yonder ; he is beckoning to us to join him.” And 
the two girls hastened forward to where Dalton 
was standing, at the corner of the street. 

“ I’m thinking we ought to go up there, 
now,” said Dalton, with a motion of his hand 
in the direction of the hotel. “ Take my arm 
each of you.” 

They obeyed, and walked along in silence, 
till they reached the inn, where Dalton entered 
with a certain assumed ease and confidence that 
very commonly with him, covered a weak pur- 
pose and a doubting spirit. 

“ Is Sir Stafford at home, or Lady Onslow ?” 
asked he of Mr. Twig, who, with a cigar in his 
mouth, and a Galignani in his hand, never rose 
from the seat he occupied. 

“ Can’t say, sir,” was the coo] response, which 
he delivered without lifting his eyes from the 
newspaper. 

“ Do you know, ma’am ?” said he, address- 
ing Mademoiselle Celestine, who happened to 
pass at the moment. “ Do you know, ma’am, 
if Lady Onslow’s at home?” 

“ She never receive in de morning,” was the 
curt reply. And, with a very impudent stare 
at the two sisters, whose dress imposed no re- 
straint upon her insolence, Mademoiselle flounced 
past. “ Come along, girls,” said Dalton, angrily, 
and offended that he should appear to his chil- 
dren as if wanting in worldly tact and knowl- 
edge. “ Come with we.” And he proceeded 
boldly up-stairs. 

A folding-door lay open before them into a 
large chamber, littered with boxes, trunks, and 
traveling gear of all kinds. Making his way 
through these, while he left his daughters out- 
side, Dalton approached a door that led into an 
inner room, and knocked sharply at it with his 
knuckles. 

“You may take it away, now ; I’ve used 
cold water !” cried a voice from within, that at 
once proclaimed Dr. Grounsell. 

Dalton repeated his summons more confidently. 


77 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Go to the devil. I say,” cried the doctor; 
*' you’ve made me cut my chin;” and the en- 
raged Grounsell — with his face covered with 
lather, and streaming with blood — flung open 
the door in a passion. “ Oh ! Dalton, this you, 
and the ladies here,” said he, springing back 
ashamed, as Kate’s hearty burst of laughter 
greeted him — “ Come in, Dalton, come in,” 
said he, dragging the father forward and shut- 
ting the door upon him. “ 1 was longing to 
see you, man ; I was just thinking how I could 
have five minutes’ talk with you. What an- 
swer have you given to the letter they’ve sent 
you?” 

“ What d’ye think,” said Dalton, jocularly, as 
he seated himself in a comfortable chair. 

“What do I think?” repeated he twice or 
thrice over. “ Egad, I don’t know what to 
think ! I only know what to hope, and wish it 
may have been !” 

“ And what’s that?” said Dalton, with a look 
of almost sternness, for he was not ignorant of 
the doctor’s sentiments on the subject. 

1 “ A refusal, of course,” said Grounsell, who 

never yet was deterred by a look, a sign, or an 
inuendo, from any expression of his sentiments. 

“ And why so, sir ?” rejoined Dalton, warmly. 

“ On every ground in the world. What has 
your fine, generous-hearted, dear child in com- 
mon with that vile world of envy, malice, and 
all wickedness you’d throw her among ? What 
similarity in thought, feeling, or instinct between 
her and that artificial class with whom you would 
associate her; with their false honor, false prin- 
ciple, and false delicacy ? Nothing real and 
substantial about them but their wickedness. If 
you were a silly woman, like the mother in the 
Vicar of Wakefield, I could forgive you ; but a 
man — a hardened, worldly man, that has tasted 
poverty, and knows the rubs of life, I’ve no 
patience with you, d — n me ! if I have !” 

“ A little more of this, and I’ll have none with 
you,” said Dalton, as he clenched his fist, and 
struck his knee a hard blow. “ You presume 
to talk of us as people whose station was al- 
ways what our present means imply ; but I’d 
have you to know, that we’ve better blood in 
our veins — ” 

“ Devil take your blood ! you’ve made me 
spill mine again,” cried Grounsell, as he sliced 
a piece off his chin, and threw down the razor, 
in a torrent of anger, while Dalton grinned a 
look of malicious satisfaction. 

“ Couldn’t your good blood have kept you 
above any thing like dependence?” 

Dalton sprang to his feet, and clutching the 
chair, raised it in the air; but as suddenly 
dashed it on the floor again, without speaking. 

“Go on,” cried Grounsell, daring him. “I’d 
rather you’d break my skull than that dear girl’s 
heart ; and that's what you’re bent on. Ay, break 
her heart ! no less. You can’t terrify me, man, 
bv those angry looks. You can t wound me, 
either, by retaliating, and calling me a depend- 
ent. I know I am such. I know well all the 
ignominy, all the shame ; but I know, too, all 


the misery of the position. But, mark me, the 
disgrace and the sorrow end where they begin — • 
with myself alone. I have none to blush for 
me; I stand alone in the world, a poor, scathed, 
sapless, leafless trunk. But it is not so with 
you. Come, come, Dalton, you fancy that you 
know something of life because you have passed 
so many years of it among your equals and 
neighbors in your own country ; but you know 
nothing — absolutely nothing — of the world as it 
exists here.” 

“A hearty but contemptuous laugh broke 
from Dalton as he heard this speech. It was, 
indeed, somewhat of a suprise to listen to such 
a charge. He, Peter Dalton, that knew a spav- 
ined horse, or could detect a windgall better 
than any man in the county — he, that never was 
“ taken in” by a roarer, nor deceived by a crib- 
biter — to tell him that he knew nothing of life ! 

“That’ll do, doctor; that’ll do,” said he, with 
a most compassionating smile at the other’s ig- 
norance. “I hope you know more about med- 
icine than you seem to do about men and wom- 
en.” And with these words, he left the room, 
banging the door after him as he went, and 
actually ashamed that he had been betrayed 
into warmth by one so evidently deficient in the 
commonest knowledge of the world. 

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting, girls,” said 
he, approaching them. “ And, indeed, I might 
have spent my time better, too. But no mat- 
ter ; we must try and find out her ladyship now, 
for the morning is slipping over.” 

As he spoke, George Onslow appeared, and 
recognizing the party with much cordiality, 
conducted them to the breakfast-room, where 
Sir Stafford, Lady Hester, and Miss Onslow 
were seated. If Sydney’s reception of the two 
sisters was less enthusiastic than Lady Hester’s, 
it was not less kind. Nelly was won almost 
instantaneously by the unaffected ease and sim- 
plicity of her manner. As for Dalton himself, 
her ladyship had determined to carry him by 
storm. She suffered him to declaim about his 
ancestors and their wealth; heard him with 
assumed interest in all his interminable stories 
of Daltons for six generations ; and artfully 
opposed to his regrets at the approaching de- 
parture of his daughter, the ingenious consola- 
tion that she w T as not about to sojourn with 
mere strangers, but with those united to her by 
the ties of kindred. George had, meanwhile, 
made two or three efforts to engage Kate in 
conversation, but, whether from the pre-occu- 
pation of her mind, agitated as it well might be 
at such a moment, or that his topics were so 
utterly new and strange to her, his attempt was 
not attended with any signal success. A sense 
of shame, too, at the disparity of her own and 
her sister’s appearance, in contrast with the 
quiet elegance of Lady Hester and Miss Ons- 
low’s dress, oppressed her. Strange was it that 
this feeling should have agitated her, now ; she, 
who always hitherto had never wasted a thought 
on such matters, and yet she felt it acutely; and 
as she glanced from the rustling robe of silk to 


THE D/\.LTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


7'8 

the folds of her own homely costume, her heart 
beat painfully, and her breathing came short. 
Was she already changed, that thoughts like 
these could impress her so strongly ? Had 
Adam’s first shame descended to his daughter ? 
“ How unlike I am to them !” was the bitter 
thought that rose to her mind, and eat like a 
cancer into her heart. 

The sense of inferiority, galling and torturing 
as it is, becomes infinitely more unendurable 
when connected with matters of trivial import- 
ance. There is a sense of indignant anger in 
the feeling, that we are surpassed by what seem 
the mere conventionalities and tricks of society, 
and although Kate knew not the source of her 

C5 

unhappiness, some of it lay in this fact. Every 
little gesture, every motion, the merest pecu- 
liarities of voice or accent now struck her as 
distinctive of a class — a class to which no imita- 
tion would ever give her a resemblance. If it 
were not for very shame, she would have drawn 
back now at the eleventh hour. More than 
once was she on the very verge of confessing 
what was passing within her mind, but fears of 
various kinds — of her father’s anger, of ridicule, 
of the charge of frivolity — all conspired to keep 
her silent, and she sat and listened to the de- 
scriptions of pleasure and scenes wherein she 
had already lost every interest, and which some- 
how came associated with a sense of her now 
inferiority. 

Never did home seem so regretable as in 
that moment ; the humble fireside in winter ; 
the happy evenings with little Hanserl ; the 
summer’s day rambles in the forest ; their little 
feasts beside the waterfall, under the ivy-clad 
walls of Eberstein — all rose before her. They 
were pleasures which had no alloy in her own 
humble lot, and why desert them ? She had 
almost gained courage to say that she would 
not. when a chance word caught her ear — one 
word ! — how little to hang a destiny upon ! It 
was Lady Hester, who, conversing in a half 
whisper with Mr. Dalton, said, 

“ She will be perfectly beautiful, when dressed 
becomingly.” 

Was this, then, all that was needed to give 
her the stamp and semblance of the others? 
Oh, if she could believe it 1 If she could but 
fancy that, at some future time, such graceful 
elegance should be her own, that gentle lan- 
guor, that chastened quietude of Sydney, or that 
sparkling lightness of Lady Hester herself! 

“ What time de horses, saar ?” said the 
courier, popping his head into the room. 

“ I scarcely know — what do you say, Lady 
Hester?” 

“ I’m quite ready — this instant if you like — 
indeed, I’m always the first,” said she, gayly; 
“ nobody travels with less preparation than I do. 
There, see all I want!” and she pointed to a 
fan, and a book, and a smelling-bottle ; as if all 
her worldly effects and requirements went no 
further, and the four great imperials, and a 
dozen capacious boxes were not packed with 
her wardrobe. “I do detest the worry and fuss 


some people make about a journey for a week, 
or even a month beforehand ; they unsettle them- 
selves and every one around them ; putting un- 
der lock and key half the things of every-day 
utility, and making a kind of ‘jail-delivery’ of 
all the imprisoned old cloaks and dresses of the 
toilet. As for me, I take the road as I'M go to 
the Opera, or drive out in the Park — I ask for 
my bonnet, that’s all.” 

There was some truth in this. Her ladyship 
did, in fact, give herself not a whit more thought 
or consideration for preparation of any kind than 
if the excursion had been a promenade. 

“It is now two o’clock,” said Sir Stafford, 
“ and if we mean to reach Offenburg to-night 
we must not lose more time. Isn’t it Offenburg 
you advised as our halt, Mr. Jekyl?” 

“ Yes, Sir Stafford,” simpered out that bland 
personage. “ It is a most comfortable little 
inn, and a very praiseworthy cook.” 

“By-the-by, has any one thought of ordering 
luncheon here ?” cried George. 

Jekyl gave a nod, to intimate that he had 
taken that precaution. 

“And Mr. Jekyl,” said Lady Hester; “what 
of those bullfinches, for I must have them?” 

“ They are safely caged and packed in our 
britska, madam. You’ll also find that your 
sketch-book, and the water-colors, are available 
at any moment, Miss Onslow,” said he, with a 
respectful gesture. She smiled, and bowed her 
thanks in silence. 

“ And de horses, saar ?” asked the courier 
once more : for during this colloquy he had been 
standing in expectation of his orders. 

“ Do tell him, Mr. Jekyl,” said Lady Hester, 
with that tone of languor that bespoke her dislike 
to the trouble of even a trifling degree of resolu- 
tion. 

“ I think we shall say in one hour, Gregoire,” 
said Jekyl, mildly. “And, perhaps, it would 
be better that you should see — ” What this 
matter was that the courier should bestow his 
special attention upon, is not on record in this 
history, inasmuch as that when the speaker had 
reached thus far, he passed out of the door, 
talking as he went, in a low and confidential 
voice. 

“Capital fellow — Jekyl;” exclaimed George; 
“he forgets nothing.” 

“ He appears to be a most accomplished 
traveler,” said Sir Stafford. 

“ And such a linguist !” said Sydney. 

“And so amusing!” added my lady. 

“ And such a rogue !” muttered Dalton to 
himself, “ who, although so open to any imposi- 
tion that took the form of flattery, could at once 
detect the knavery that was practiced upon 
others, and who, at a glance, read the character 
of the new acquaintance. 

“ Don’t you like the stir and excitement of 
the road, my dear child,” said Lady Hester to 
Kate, who, with very red eyes and very pale 
cheeks, stood in a window to avoid being ob- 
served. “ There is something so adventurous 
about a journey always. One may be robbed, 


79 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


you know, or the carriage upset, as happened to 
ourselves t’other day; or mistaken for some- 
body else, and carried off to prison. It gives 
such a flurry to the spirits to think of these 
things, and a life of monotony is so very de- 
testable.” 

Ivate tried to smile an assent, and Lady 
Hester ran on in the same strain, extolling the 
delights of any thing and every thing that 
promised an excitement. “ You know, my dear 
child, that this little place has almost been the 
death of me,” added she. “I never was so 
bored in all my life ; and I vow I shall detest 
a mill and a pine-forest to the last day I live. 
If it had not been for you and your sweet sister, 
I do not know what we should have done ; but 
it’s all over now. The dreary interval is passed, 
and when we turn the foot of that hill yonder, 
we shall have seen the last of it.” 

Kate’s heart was almost bursting as she 
heard these words. To speak thus of the little 
valley would have been a profanation at any 
time, but to do so now, when she was about to 
leave it — when she was about to tear herself 
away from all the ties of love and affection, 
seemed an actual cruelty. 

“ Small places are my aversion,” continued 
Lady Hester, who, when satisfied with her own 
talk, never cared much what effect it was pro- 
ducing upon others. One grows down insens- 
ibly to the measure of a petty locality, with its 
little interests, its little people, and its little 
gossip — don’t you think so, dear?’* 

“ We were so happy here !” murmured Kate, 
in a voice that a choking fullness of her throat 
almost stifled. 

“ Of course you were, child, very happy ; 
aud it was very good of you to be so. Yes, 
very good and very right.” Here Lady Hester 
assumed a peculiar tone, which she always put 
on whenever she fancied that she was moralizing. 
“ Natural amiability of disposition, and all that 
sort of thing, is very nice indeed ; but there’s 
luncheon I see, and now, my dear, let us take 
our places without loss of time. George, will 
you give your arm to Miss Dalton? Mr. 
Dalton — but where’s Mr. Dalton?” 

“Papa has taken him with him to his dress- 
ing-room,” answered Sydney, “but begged 
you’d not wait; they’ll be back presently.” 

“No lady does wait at luncheon,” said Lady 
Hester, snappishly, while, drawing Kate’s arm 
within her own, she led her into the adjoining 
room. 

The party had scarcely seated themselves at 
table when they were joined by Jekyl. Indeed, 
Lady Hester had only time to complain of his 
absence when he appeared ; for it was a trick 
of that, gentleman’s tact merely to make himself 
sufficiently regretted not to be blamed. And 
now he came to say that every thing was ready. 
The postillions in the saddle; the carriages 
drawn up before the door ; the relays had all 
been ordered along the road ; the supper be- 
spoke for the end of the journey. These pleas- 
ant facts he contrived to season with a running 


fire of little gossip and mimicry, in which the 
landlord, and Gregoire, and Mademoiselle Celes- 
tine, were the individuals personated. 

Never were Mr. Jekyl’s peculiar abilities 
more in request ; for the moment was an awk- 
ward and embarrassing one for all. and none, 
save himself, were able to relieve its seriousness. 
Even Nelly smiled at the witty sallies and play- 
ful conceits of this clever talker, and felt almost 
grateful to him for the momentary distraction ho 
afforded her from gloomier thoughts. With 
such success did he exert himself, that all the 
graver sentiments of the occasion were swal- 
lowed up in the pleasant current of his small 
talk, and no time given for a thought of that 
parting which was but a few minutes distant. 
Sir Stafford and Mr. Dalton were not sorry to 
discover the party in this pleasant humor, and 
readily chimed in with the gayety around them. 

The bugle of the postillions at length an- 
nounced that “time was up,” and the half hour 
which German politeness accords to leave-taking 
expired. A dead silence succeeded the sound, 
and as if moved by the same instinctive feeling, 
the two sisters arose, and withdrew into a win- 
dow. Close locked in each other’s arms, neither 
could speak. Kate’s thick sobs came fast and 
full, and her heart beat against her sister’s side 
as though it were bursting. As for Nelly, all 
that she had meant to say, the many things she 
had kept for the last moment, were forgotten, 
and she could but press the wet cheek to her 
own, and murmur a tremulous blessing. 

“ Oh, if I could but remain with you, Nelly 
dearest,” sobbed Kate; “I feel even already 
my isolation. Is it too late, sister dear, is it 
too late to go back ?” 

“Not if this be not a sudden impulse of 
sorrow for parting, Kate ; not if you think you 
would be happier here.” 

“ But papa ! how will he — what will he — ” 

She had not time for more, when her father 
joined them. A certain flurry of his manner 
showed that he was excited by talking and wine 
together. There was that in the expression of 
his features, too, that betokened a mind ill at 
ease with itself — a restless alternating between 
two courses. a 

“ ’Tis you are the lucky girl, Kate,” said he, 
drawing his arm around her, and pressing her 
to him. This day’s good luck pays me off for 
many a hard blow of fortune. They’re kind 
people you are going with, real gentry, and our 
own blood into the bargain.” 

A thick, heavy sob, was all the answer she 
could make. 

“ To be sure you’re sorry ; why wouldn’t you 
be sorry, leaving your own home and going 
away among strangers ; and ’tis I am sorry to 
let you go !” 

“ Are you so, dearest papa ? Are you really 
sorry to part with me ; would you rather I’d 
stay behind with you and Nelly?” cried she, 
looking up at him with eyes swimming in tears. 

“ Would I — is it?” said he, eagerly, as he 
kissed her forehead twice ; then, suddenly check- 


80 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ing himself, he said, in an altered voice, “ but 
that would be selfish, Kate, nothing else than 
downright selfish. Ask Nelly, there, if that’s 
my nature ? Not that Nelly will ever give me 
too good a character !” added he, bitterly. But 
poor Ellen neither heard the question nor the 
taunt ; her mind was traveling many a long 
mile away in realms of dreary speculation. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt a moment like this,” 
said Sir Stafford, “ but I believe I must take 
you away, Miss Dalton, our time is now of the 
shortest.” , 

One fond and long embrace the sisters took, 
and Kate was led away between Sir Stafford 
and her father, while Nelly went through a 
round of leave-takings with the others, in a state 
of semi-consciousness that resembled a dream. 
The courteous flatteries of Lady Hester fell as 
powerless on her ear as the rougher good wishes 
of Grounsell. George Onslow’s respectful man- 
ner was as unnoticed as the flippant smartness 
of Albert Jekyl’s. Even Sydney’s gentle at- 
tempt at consolation was heard without heed- 
ing; and when one by one they had gone and 
left her alone in that dreary room, she was not 
more aware of her solitude than when they 
stood around her. 

Couriers and waiters passed in and out to see 
that nothing had been forgotten ; doors were 
slammed on every side ; loud voices vrere call- 
ing; all the turmoil of a departure was there, 
but she knew nothing of it. Even when the 
loud cracking of the postillions’ whips echoed in 
the court-yard, and the quick clatter of horses’ 
feet and heavy wheels resounded through the 
arched doorway, she was still unmoved ; nor 
did she recover full liberty of thought till her 


father stood beside her, and said, “ Come, Nelly, 
let us go home.” 

Then she arose, and took his arm without a 
word. She would have given her life to have 
been able to speak even a few words of comfort 
to the poor old man, whose cheeks were wet 
with tears, but she could not utter a syllable. 

“Ay, indeed,” muttered he, “it will be a 
dreary home now !” 

Not another word was spoken by either as 
they trod their way along the silent streets, over 
which the coming gloom of evening threw a 
mournful shadow. They walked, with bent- 
down heads, as if actually fearing to recognize 
the objects that they had so often looked upon 
with her , and, slowly traversing the little Platz, 
they gained their own door. There they halted, 
and, from habit, pulled the bell. Its little tinkle, 
heard in the stillness, seemed suddenly to recall 
them both to thought, for Dalton, with a melan- 
choly smile, said, 

“ ’Tis old Andy is coming now ! ’Tisn’t her 
foot I hear! Oh, Nelly, Nelly, how did yon 
ever persuade me to this! Sure I know I’ll 
never be happy again.” 

Nelly made no answer. The injustice of the 
speech was well atoned for in her mind by the 
thought that, in shifting the blame from himself 
to her, her father might find some sort of con- 
solation ; well satisfied to become the subject 
of his reproach, if the sacrifice could alleviate 
his sorrow. 

“ Take that chair away; throw it out of the 
window,” cried he, angrily; “it breaks my 
heart to look at it.” And with this he leaned 
his head upon the table, and sobbed like a 
child. 


CHAPTER XX. 


A VERY SMALL “ INTERIOR.” 


In one of the most favored spots of that pleas- 
ant quay, which goes by name of the Lungo 
PArno, at- Florence, there stood a small, miser- 
able-looking, rickety old building, of two stories 
high, wedged in between two massive and im- 
posing palaces, as though a buffer to deaden the 
force of collision. In all probability it owed its 
origin to some petty usurpation, and had gradu- 
ally grown up, from the unobtrusive humility 
of a cobbler’s bulk, to the more permanent 
nuisance of stone and mortar. The space oc- 
cupied was so small as barely to permit of a 
door and a little window beside it, within which 
hung a variety of bridles, halters, and such like 
gear, with here and there the brass-mounted 
harnessing of a oalasina, or the gay worsted 
tassels and fringed finery of a peasant’s barroc- 
cino. The little spot was so crammed with 
wares, that for all purposes of traffic it was 
useless ; hence, every thing that pertained to 
sale was carried on in the street, thus contribut- 
ing by another ingredient to the annoyance of 
this misplaced residence. Threats, tyranny, 
bribery, seductions of twenty kinds, intimidation 
in as many shapes, had all failed in inducing its 
owner to remove to another part of the town. 
Gigi — every one in Florence is known by his 
Christian name, and we never heard him called 
by any other — resisted oppression as manfully 
as he was proof against softer influences, and 
held his ground, hammering away at his old 
“ demi-piques,” burnishing bits, and scouring 
housings, in utter indifference to the jarred nerves 
and chafed susceptibilities of his fine neighbors. 
It was not that the man was indifferent to money. 
It was not that the place was associated with 
any family reminiscences. It was not from its 
being very favorable to the nature of his deal- 
ings, since his chief customers were usually the 
frequenters of the less fashionable localities. It 
was the simple fact, that Gigi was a Florentine, 
and, like a Florentine, he saw no reason why he 
shouldn’t have the sun and the Arno, as well as 
the Guiciardoni, who lived at his right, or the 
Rinuncini, who dwelt on his left hand. 

Small and contracted as that miserable front- 
age was, the sun did shine upon it just as pleas- 
antly as on its proud neighbors, and the bright 
Arno glided by with its laughing ripples; while, 
from the little window above stairs, the eye 
ranged over the cypress-clad hill of San Miniato, 


and the fair gardens of the Boboli. On one s/ue 
lay the quaint old structure of the Ponte Vecchio, 
with its glittering stores of jewelry, and on the 
other the graceful elliptic arches of St. Trinita 
spanned the stream. The quay before the door 
was the chosen rallying point of all Florence ; 
the promenade where lounged all its fashionables 
of an evening, as they descended from their car- 
riages after the accustomed drive in the Cascini. 
The Guardie Nobili passed daily, in all their 
scarlet bravery, to and from the Pitti Palace ; 
the Grand Ducal equipage never took any other 
road. A continual flow of travelers to the great 
hotels on the quay, contributed its share of bustle 
and animation to the scene ; so that here might 
be said to meet, as in a focus, all that made up 
the life, the stir, and the movement of the capital. 

Full of amusement and interest as that moving 
panorama often is, our object is less to linger 
beside it, than, having squeezed our way be- 
tween the chaotic wares of Gigi’s shop, to 
ascend the little, dark, atnd creaking stairs, 
which leads to the first story, and into which 
we now beg to introduce our reader. There 
are but two rooms, each of them of the dimen- 
sions of closets, but furnished with a degree of 
pretension that can not fail to cause amazement 
as you enter. Silk draperies, carved dahinets, 
bronzes, china, chairs of ebony, tables of buhl, 
a Persian rug on the floor, an alabaster lamp 
suspended from the ceiling, miniatures in hand- 
some frames, and armor, cover the walls , while,, 
scattered about, are richly-bound books, and 
prints, and drawings in water-color. Through 
the half-drawn curtain that covers the doorway 
— for there is no door — you can peep into the 
back room, where a lighter and more modern 
taste prevails ; the gold-sprigged curtains of a 
French bed, and the Bohemian glass that glitters 
every where, bespeaking another era of decora- 
tive luxury. 

It is not with any invidious pleasure for de- 
preciation, but purely in the interests of truth, 
that we must now tell our reader, that, of all: 
this seeming elegance and splendor, nothing, 
absolutely nothing, is real. The brocaded silks 
have been old petticoats; the ebony is lacquer; 
the ivory is bone ; the statuettes are plaster, 
glazed so as to look like marble; the armor is 
“ papier-mache” — even to the owner himself, all 
is imposition — for he is no other than Albert Jekyl. . 


82 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Now, my dear reader, yon and I see these 
things precisely in the same light ; the illusion 
of a first glance stripped offj we smile as we 
examine, one by one, the ingenious devices 
meant to counterfeit ancient art or modern 
elegance. It is possible, too, that we derive as 
much amusement from the ingenuity exercised, 
as we should have had pleasure in contemplating 
the realities so typified. Still there is one in- 
dividual to whom this consciousness brings no 
alloy of enjoyment — Jekyl has persuaded him- 
self to accept all as fact. Like the Indian, who 
first carves and then worships his god, he has 
gone through the whole process of fabrication, 
and now gazes on his handiwork with the eyes 
of a true believer. Gracefully reclined upon an 
ottoman, the mock amber mouth-piece of a gilt 
hooka between his lips, he dreams, with half- 
closed eyes, of Oriental luxury ! A Sybarite in 
every taste, he has invented a little philosophy 
of his own. He has seen enough of life, to know 
that thousands might live in enjoyment out of the 
superfluities of rich men, and yet make them 
nothing the poorer. What banquet would not 
admit of a guest the more ? What fete to 
which another might not be added ? What 
four-in-hand 'prances by without some vacant 
seat, be it even in the rumble? What gilded 
gondola has not a place to spare? To be this 
“complement” to the world’s want is then his 
mission. 

No man invents a “metier,” without a strong 
element of success. The very creative power 
is an earnest of victory. It is true that there 
had been great men before Agamemnon ; so had 
there been a race of “diners-out” before Jekyl; 
but he first reduced the practice to system ; 
showing that all the triumphs of cookery, all the 
splendor of equipage, all the blandishments of 
beauty, all the fascinations of high society, may 
be enjoyed by one who actually does not hold a 
** share in the company,” and, without the quali- 
fication of scrip, takes his place among the di- 
rectors. 

Had he brought to this new profession com- 
monplace abilities and inferior acquirements, 
he would have been lost amid that vulgar herd 
of indistinguishables which infest every city, 
and whose names are not even “writ in water.” 
Jekyl, however, possessed many and varied gifts. 
He might have made a popular preacher in a 
watering-place; a very successful doctor for 
nervous invalids ; a clever practitioner at the 
bar; an admirable member of the newspaper 
press. He might have been very good as an 
actor ; he would have been glorious as an auc- 
tioneer ! With qualities of this order, a most 
plastic wit, and an India-rubber conscience, what 
bound need there be to his success ! Nor was 
there. He was in all the society of the capital ; 
not alone an admitted and accepted, but a wel- 
come guest. He might have failed to strike 
this man as being clever, or that, as being 
agreeable. Some might be disappointed in his 
smartness; some might think his social claims 
overrated ; none were ever offended by any thing 


that fell from him. His great secret seemed to 
lie in the fact, that, if generally easy to be found 
when required, he was never in the way when 
not wanted. Had he possessed the gift of in- 
visibility, he could scarcely have been more 
successful in this latter good quality. He never 
interrupted a confidence ; never marred a tete- 
a-tete ; a kind of instinct would arrest his steps 
as he approached a boudoir, where his presence 
would be undesirable ; and he has been known 
to retire from a door on which he had already 
placed his hand, with a sudden burst of intelli- 
gence suggesting to “ come another day.” 

These, however, seem mere negative quali- 
ties ; his positive ones were, however, not less 
remarkable. The faculties which some men 
might have devoted to abstract science or meta- 
physical inquiry, he, with a keen perception ol 
his own fitness, resolved to exercise upon the 
world around him. His botany was a human 
classification, all his chemistry an analysis of 
men’s motives. It is true, perhaps, that the 
poet’s line may have been received by him with 
a peculiar limitation, and that if “The proper 
study of mankind is man,” his investigations 
took a shape scarcely contemplated by the 
writer. It was not man in his freedom of 
thought and action, not man in all the con 
sciousness of power, and in the high hope of a 
great destiny that attracted him — No ! it was 
for small humanity that he cared — for all the 
struggles, and wiles, and plots, and schemings 
of this wficked world — for man amid its pomps 
and vanities, its balls, its festivals, its intrigues, 
and its calamities. 

He felt, with the great dramatist, that “ All 
the world’s a stage,” and, the better to enjoy 
the performance, he merely took a “walking 
character,” that gave him full leisure to watch 
the others. Such was our friend Albert Jekyl, 
or, as he was popularly called by his acquaint- 
ance, Le Due de Dine-out. to distinguish him 
from the Talleyrands, who are Dues de Dino. 

Let us now, without further speculation, come 
back to him, as, with his window open to admit 
the “ Arno sun,” he lay at full length upon his 
ottoman, conning over his dinner-list. He had 
been for some time absent from Florence, and 
in the interval a number of new people had ar- 
rived, and some of the old had gone away. He 
was, therefore, running over the names of the 
present and the missing, with a speculative 
thought for the future. 

“A bad season, it would seem!” muttered 
he, as his eye traced rapidly the list of English 
names, in which none of any distinction figured. 
“ This comes of Carbonari and Illuminati hum- 
bug. They frighten John Bull, and he will not 
come abroad to see a barricade under his win- 
dow. Great numbers have gone aw 7 ay, too, the 
Scotts, the Carringdons, the Hopleys ! — three 
excellent houses ; and those dear Milnwoods, 
who, so lately ‘ reconciled to Rome,’ as the 
phrase is, 1 took out their piety’ in Friday fish- 
dinners. 

“ The Russians, too, have left us ; the Gero- 


83 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


boffskys gone back to their snows again, and I 
expiating their ‘ liberal tendencies 5 by a tour in j 
Siberia. The Chaptowitsch, recalled in disgrace 
fbr asking one of Louis Philippe’s sons to a break- ! 
fast ! We have got in exchange a few Carlists, 
halt a dozen ‘ Legitimists, 5 with very stately 
manners and small fortunes. But a good house 
to dine at, a good salon for a lounge, a pleasant 
haunt for all seasons and at all hours, what is 
there? Nothing, absolutely nothing. And what 
a city this was once — crammed, as it used to be, 
with dear delightful ‘ruined families; 5 that is, 
those who left ruin to their creditors at home, 
to come out and live gloriously abroad. And 
now, I look down my list, and, except my little 
Sunday dinner at ‘ Marescotte’s,’ and that half- 
luncheon thing I take at the Villa Pessarole, I 
really see nothing for the whole week. The 
Onslows, alone, figure in strong capitals. Let 
me see, then, how they must be treated. I have 
already housed them at the Palazzo Mazzarini, 
and, for some days at least, their time will be 
filled up with upholsterers, decorators, and such 
like. Then the campaign will open, and I can 
but watch eventualities, and there will be no 
lack of these. The young Guardsman likes 
play. I must see that Prince Carini does not 
get hold of him. Miss Onslow has a taste for 
gothic and stained glass; that, nowadays, often 
ends in a love of saints’ shinbones,, and other 
relics. My lady is disposed to be a ‘fast one; 5 
and, in fact, except the gruff old doctor, who is 
a confounded bore, the whole craft is deficient 
in ballast. But I was forgetting ‘the Dalton, 5 
shame on me, for she is very pretty, indeed !” 
He seemed to ruminate and reflect for some 
minutes, and then said aloud, “Yes, ma belle 
Catherine, with the aid of Albert Jekyl, with 
his counsel to guide, and his head to direct you, 
there’s no saying what your destiny might not 
be ! It would be, I know well, very hard to 
convince you of the fact, and possibly were I to 
try it you’d be silly enough to fancy me in love 
with you !” Albert Jekyl in love ! The idea 
was so excellent that he lay back and laughed 
heartily at it. “And yet, 55 said he, after a 
pause, “you’ll see this fact aright one of these 
davs. You’ll learn the immense benefit my 
knowledge would be, when joined to your own 
beauty. Ay, Kate ! but it will be too late, just 
so, too late; then, like every one else, you’ll have 
played all your trumps before you begin to learn 
the game. 

“A girl who has caught up every trick of 


] manner, every little tactic of society within a 
| month, and who, at this hour, would stand the 
scrutiny of the most fastidious eye, is a great 
prize in the wheel. This aptitude might lead 
to great things, though, in all probability, it 
will never conduce save to very little opes !” 
With this reflection Jekyl arose to begin his 
toilet, an occupation which, less from dandy- 
ism thaa pure self-love, he usually prolonged 
during the whole morning. 

It was to him a period of self-examination. 
He seemed — to use a mercantile figure — to be 
taking stock of his own capabilities, and investi- 
gating his own means of future success. It 
was an “open day;” that is, he knew not 
where he should dine, so that his costume, 
while partaking of all the characteristics of the 
morning, had yet combined certain little decor- 
ative traits that would not be unsuitable, if 
pressed, to accept an unpremeditated hospitality. 

There were very few, indeed, with whom 
Jekyl would have condescended to dine, not 
only from the want of dignity incurred, but that 
on principle he would have preferred the hum- 
blest fare at home to the vulgarity of a pot-luck 
dinner, which invariably, as he said himself, 
deranged your digestion, and led to wrong inti- 
macies. 

His dress being completed, he looked out 
along the crowd to see in whose carriage he 
was to have a seat to the Caseini. More than 
one inviting gesture motioned him to a place, 
as equipage after equipage passed on; but, 
although some of those who sought him were 
high in rank, and others distinguished for beauty 
and attraction, Jekyl declined the courtesies with 
that little wave of the hand so significative in 
all Italian intercourse. Occasionally, indeed, a 
bland regretful smile seemed to convey the sor- 
row the refusal cost him ; and once he actually 
placed his hand over where his heart might be, 
as though to express a perfect pang of suffer- 
ing, but still he bided his time. 

At last, a very dark visage, surrounded by a 
whisker of blackest hair, peeped from beneath 
the head of a very shabby caleche, whose horse 
and coachman were all of the “ seediest ;” and 
Jekyl cried out, “ Morlache !” while he made 
a sign toward the Caseini. The other replied 
by spreading out his hand horizontally from his 
mouth, and blowing along the surface — a pan- 
tomime meant to express a railroad. Jekyl 
immediately descended and took his place be- 
side him. 


CHAPTER XXL 


A FAMILY 

The fashionable life of a great city has a 
character of sameness, which defies all attempts 
at portraiture. Well-bred people, and their 
amusements, are all constructed so perfectly 
alike — certain family traits pervading them 
throughout — that every effort at individualiza- 
tion is certain to be a failure. You may change 
the venue , if you will, from London to Paris, to 
Vienna, or St. Petersburg, but the issue is al- 
ways the same ; the very same interests are at 
work, and the same passions exercised by the 
self-same kind of people. If such be the rule 
among the first-rate capitals of Europe, it is 
very far from being the case in those smaller 
cities which belong to inferior states, and which, 
from reasons of health, pleasure, or economy, 
are the resort of strangers from different parts 
of the world. In these, society is less disci- 
plined, social rank less defined ; conflicting claims 
and rival nationalities disturb the scene, and 
there is, so to say, a kind of struggle for pre- 
eminence, which in better regulated communi- 
ties is never witnessed. If, as is unquestionably 
true, such places rarely present the attractions 
of good society, they offer to the mere observer 
infinitely more varied and amusing views of life 
than he would ever expect to see elsewhere. 
As in the few days of a revolution, when the 
“ barricades aro up,” and all hurrying to the 
conflict, more of national character will be ex- 
hibited than in half a century of tame obedience 
to the law, so here are displayed, to the sun and 
the noonday, all those passions and pretensions 
which rarely see the light in other places. 

The great besetting sin of this social state is 
the taste for notoriety. Every thing must 
contribute to this ! Not alone wealth, splendor, 
rank, and genius, but vice, in all its shapes and 
forms, must be notorious. “ Better be calum- 
niated in all the moods and tenses than untalked 
of,” is the grand axiom. Do something that 
can be reported of you ; good, if you will — bad, 
if you must; but do it. If you be not rich 
enough to astonish by the caprices of your 
wealth, do something by your wits, or even 
your whiskers. The color of a man’s gloves 
has sufficed to make his fortune. 

TJ pon this strange ocean, which, if rarely storm- 
shaken, was never perfectly tranquil, the Onslows 
were now launched, as well pleased as people 
usually are who, from being of third or fourth-rate 
importance, in their own country, suddenly awake 
to the fact that they are celebrities abroad. 


The Mazzarini Palace had long been unten- 
anted ; its last occupant had been one of the 
Borghese family, whose princely fortune was 
still unable to maintain the splendor of a resi- 
dence fitted only for royalty. To learn, there- 
fore, that a rich “ Milordo” had arrived there 
with the intention of passing his winter, was a 
piece of news that occupied every tongue in 
the city. Gossips were questioned about the 
private history, the Peerage consulted for such 
facts as were public. Sir Stafford’s wealth was 
actively discussed, and all possible inroads upon 
it his son’s extravagance might have made, 
debated and decided on. A minute investiga- 
tion into the probable reasons for leaving En- 
gland was also instituted, in which conjecture, 
far more ingenious than true figured prominently 
What they were like — what they said, did, and 
meant to do — was the sole table-talk of the 
capital. 

“ They’ve had their horses out from En- 
gland,” said one ; “ They’ve taken the best box at 
the Pergola,” said another; “ They’ve engaged 
Midchekoff’s cook,” said a third; “ They’ve been 
speaking to Gridani about his band,” chimed in a 
fourth ; and so on. All their proceedings were 
watched and followed by that eager vulture- 
hood which hungers for ortolans, and thirsts for 
iced champagne. 

Nor were the Onslows without offering food 
for this curious solicitude. From the hour of 
her arrival, Lady Hester had been deeply en- 
gaged, in concert with her grand vizier, Albert 
Jekyl, in preparations for the coming campaign. 
An army of upholsterers, decorators, and such 
like, beset the Palazzo with enormous vans 
crammed full of wares. Furniture, that had 
served royal guests, and was even yet in high 
preservation, was condemned, to give way to 
newer and more costly decoration ; rich stuffs 
and hangings, that had been the admiration of 
many a visitor, were ruthlessly pulled down, to 
be replaced by even more gorgeous materials ; 
till at last it was whispered about, that, except 
some antique cabinets, the pictures, and a few 
tables of malachite or marble, little or nothing 
remained of what once had constituted the 
splendor of the place. 

These were mere rumors, however, for as 
yet none, save Albert Jekyl himself, had seen 
the interior; and from him, unless disposed to 
accord it, all confidence was hopeless. Indeed, 
his little vague stare when questioned — his 


86 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


simpering, “I shouldn’t wonder,” “It is very 
likely,” or, “ Now that you mention it, I begin 
to think so too,” would have disarmed the sus- 
picion of all who had not studied him deeply. 
W hat the Onslows were going to do, and when 
they would do it, were, then, the vexed ques- 
tions of every coterie. In a few days more the 
Carnival would begin, and yet no announcement 
ol their intentions had yet gone forth — no pro- 
gramme of future festivities been issued to the 
world. A vague and terrible fear began to 
prevail that it was possible they meant all these 
splendid preparations for themselves alone. Such 
a treason was incredible at first ; but as day 
followed day, and no sign was made, suspicion 
ripened into actual dread ; and now, the eager 
expectants began to whisper among themselves 
dark reasons for a conduct so strange and inex- 
plicable. 

Haggerstone contributed his share to these 
mysterious doubtings, for while not confessing 
that his acquaintance with the Onslows was of 
the very slightest, and dated but from a week 
before, he spoke of them with all the affected 
ease and information of one, w 7 ho had known 
them for years. 

Nor "were his comments of the most flattering 
kind, for seeing how decidedly every effort he 
had made to renew acquaintance was met by a 
steady opposition, he lost no time in assuming 
his stand as enemy. The interval of doubt 
which had occurred as to their probable mode 
of life was favorable for this line of action. 
None knew if they were ever to partake of the 
splendor and magnificence of the Mazzarini ; 
none could guess what chance they had of the 
sumptuous banquets of the rich man’s table. 
It was a lottery, in which, as yet, they had not 
even a ticket, and what so natural as to depre- 
ciate the scheme ? 

If the courts of law and equity be the recog- 
nized tribunals by which the rights of property 
are decided, so there exist in every city certain 
not less decisive courts, which pronounce upon 
all questions of social claims, and deliver judg- 
ments upon the pretensions of every new arrival 
among them. High amid the number of these 
was a certain family called Ricketts, who had 
been residents of Florence for thirty odd years 
back. They consisted of three persons — Gen- 
eral Ricketts, his wife, and a maiden sister of 
the general. They inhabited a small house in a 
garden within the boulevard, dignified by the 
name of the “Yillino Zoe.” It had originally 
been the humble residence of a market-gardener, 
but by the aid of paint and plaster, contrived to 
impose upon the world almost as successfully 
as did the fair owner herself by the help of 
similar adjuncts. A word, however, for the 
humanities before we speak of their abiding 
place. The “General” — Heaven alone knew 
when, where, or in what service he became so 

was a small, delicate little man, with bland 

manners, a weak voice, a weak stomach, and a 
weaker head ; his instincts all mild, gentle, and 
inoffensive, and his whole pursuit in life a passion 


for inventing fortifications, and defending passes 
and tetes-du-pont by lines, circumvallations, and 
ravelins, which cost reams of paper and whole 
buckets of water-color to describe. The only 
| fire which burned within his nature was a little 
j flickering flame of hope, that one day the w T orld 
j would awake to the recognition of his great 
discoveries, and his name be associated with 
those of Yauban and Carnot. Sustained by this, 
he bore up against contemporary neglect and 
actual indifference ; he vrhispered to himself, 
that, like Nelson, he would one day “ have a 
gazette of his own,” and in this firm conviction, 
he went on with rule and compass, measuring 
and daubing and drawing from morn till night, 
happy, humble, and contented : nothing could 
possibly be more inoffensive than such an exist- 
ence. Even the French — our natural enemies 
— or the Russians — our Palmerstonian “ Betes 
Noires,” — would have forgiven, had they but 
seen, the devices of his patriotism. Never did 
heroic ardor burn in a milder bosom, for though 
his brain reveled in all the horrors of siege and 
slaughter, he would not have had the heart to 
crush a beetle. 

Unlike him in every respect was the partner 
of his joys ; a more bustling, plotting, scheming 
existence it was hard to conceive. Most pre- 
tenders are satisfied with aspiring to one crown* 
her ambitions were “legion.” When Columbus 
received the taunts of the courtiers on the ease 
of his discovery, and merely replied, that the 
merit lay simply in the fact that he alone had 
made it, he was uttering a truth susceptible of 
very wide application. Nine-tenths of the in- 
ventions which promote the happiness or secure 
the ease of mankind, have been not a whit more 
difficult than that of balancing the egg. They 
only needed that some one should think of them, 
“ practically.” Thousands may have done so in 
moods of speculation or fancy ; the grand requi- 
site was a practical intelligence. Such was 
Mrs. Ricketts’. As she had seen at Naples the 
lava used for mere road-making, which in other 
hands, and by other treatment, might have been 
fashioned into all the shapes and colors of Bohe- 
mian glass, so did she perceive that a certain 
raw material was equally misapplied and de- 
voted to base uses, but which, by the touch of 
genius, might be made powerful as the wand of 
an enchanter. This was “ Flattery.” Do not, 
like the Spanish courtiers, my dear reader — do 
not smile at her discovery, nor suppose that she 
had been merely exploring an old and exhausted 
mine. Her flattery was not, as the world 
employs it, an exaggerated estimate of existing 
qualities, but a grand poetic and creative power, 
that actually begot the great sublime it praised. 
Whatever your walk, rank, or condition in life, 
she instantly laid hold of it to entrap you. No 
matter what your size, stature, or symmetry, 
she could costume you in a minute ! Her 
praises, like an elastic-web livery, fitted all her 
slaves and slaves were they of the most abject 
slavery, who were led by the dictation of her 
crafty intelligence ! 


86 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


A word about poor Martha, and we have 
done ; nor, indeed, is there any need we should 
say more than that she was universally known 
as “Poor Martha” by all their acquaintance. 
Oh ! what patience, submission, and long-suffer- 
ing it takes before the world will confer its 
degree of Martyr — before they will condescend 
to visit, even with so cheap a thing as com- 
passion, the life of an enduring self-devotion. 
Martha had had but one idol all her life — her 
brother ; find although, when he married late in 
years, she had almost died broken-hearted at the 
shock, she clung to him and his fortunes, un- 
able to separate from one, to whose habits she 
had been ministering for above thirty years. It 
was said that originally she was a person of 
good common faculties, and a reasonably fair 
knowledge of the world ; but to see her at the 
time of which we now speak, not a vestige re- 
mained of either — not a stone marked where 
the edifice once stood. Nor can this be matter 
of wonderment. Who could have passed years 
amid all the phantasmagoria of that unreal 
existence, and either not gone clean mad, or 
made a weak compromise with sanity, by ac- 
cepting every thing as real. Poor Martha had 
exactly these two alternatives — either to “ be- 
lieve the crusts, mutton,” or be eternally shut 
out from all hope. Who can tell the long and 
terrible struggle such a mind must have en- 
dured ? what little bursts of honest energy 
repelled by fear and timidity ? what good in- 
tentions baffled by natural humility, and the 
affection she bore her brother ? 

It may have, nay, it did, cost her much, to 
believe this strange creed of her sister-in-law ; 
but she ended by doing so. So implicit was 
her faith, that, like a true devotee, she would 
not trust the evidence of her own senses, if 
opposed by the ai'ticles of her belief. The very 
pictures, at whose purchase she had been 
present, and whose restoration and relackering 
had been the work of her own hands, she was 
willing to aver had been the gifts of royal and 
princely personages. The books for which she 
had herself written to the publishers, she would 
swear were all tributes offered by the respective 
writers to the throne of taste and erudition. 
Every object with whose humble birth and 
origin she was familiar, was associated in her 
mind with some curious history, which, got off 
by rote, she repeated with full credulity. Like 
the well-known athlete, who lifted a bull be- 
cause he had accustomed himself to the feat 
since the animal had been a calf, rising from 
small beginnings, she had so educated her 
faculties, that now nothing was above her 
powers. Not all the straits and contrivances 
by which this motley display was got up — not 
all the previous schemings and plottings — not 
all the discussions as to what King or Kaiser 
this should be attributed — by what artist that 
was painted — who carved this cup — who en- 
ameled that vase — could shake the firmness of 
her faith when the matter was once decided. 
She might oppose the Bill in every stage ; she 


miobt cavil at it in Committee: and divide on 

n / 

every clause ; but when it once became law, she 
revered it as a statute of the land. All her own 
doubts faded away on the instant ; all her for- 
mer suggestions vanished at once ; a new light 
seemed to break on her mind, and she appeared 
to see with the eyes of truth and discernment. 
We have been led away beyond our intention in 
this sketch, and have no space to devote to that 
temple wherein the mysteries were celebrated. 
Enough if we say that it was small and ill- 
arranged, its discomfort increased by the incon- 
gruous collection of rare and curious objects by 
which it was filled. Stuffed lions stood in the 
hall ; mock men in armor guarded the entrance 
to the library ; vast glass cases of mineralogical 
wealth, botanical specimens, stuffed birds, im- 
paled butterflies, Indian weapons, Etrurian cups, 
Irish antiquities, Chinese curiosities, covered 
the walls on every side. Not a specimen 
among them that could not trace its presenta 
tion to some illustrious donor. Miniatures of 
dear, dear friends were every where ; and what 
a catholic friendship was that which included 
every one, from Lord Byron to Chalmers, and 
took in the whole range of morals, from Mrs. 
Opie to Fanny Elssler. Indeed, although the 
fair Zoe was a “ rigid virtue,” her love of 
genius, her “ mind- worship,” as she called it, 
often led her into strange intimacies with that 
intellectual class whose strength lies in pirou- 
ettes, and whose gifts are short petticoats. In 
a word, whatever was “notorious” was her 
natural prey: a great painter, a great radical, 
a great basso, a great traveler; any one to 
lionize, any thing to hang a history upon ; to 
enlist, even “for one night only,” in that absurd 
comedy which was performed at her house, and 
to display among her acquaintances as another 
in that long catalogue of those who came to lay 
the tribute of their genius at her feet. 

That a large section of society was disposed 
to be rude and ungenerous enough to think her 
a bore, is a fact that we are, however unwilling, 
obliged to confess ; but her actual influence was 
little affected by the fact. The real serious 
business of life is often carried on in localities sur- 
rounded by innumerable inconveniences. Men 
buy and sell their millions, subsidize states, and 
raise loans, in dens dark and dismal enough to 
be prison-cells. In the same way, the Villino 
was a recognized rendezvous of all who wanted 
to hear what was going on in the world, and 
who wished to be a la hauteur of every current 
scandal of the day. Not that such was ever the 
tone of the conversation ; on the contrary, it 
was “all taste and the musical glasses,” the 
“naughty talk” being the mere asides of the 
scene. 

Now, in that season of foreign life which 
precedes the Carnival, and on those nights when 
there is no opera, any one benevolent enough to 
open his doors to receive is sure of full houses ; 
so the Villino “improved the occasion,” by 
announcing a series of Tuesdays and Fridays, 
which were, as the papers say, frequented by all 


87 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the rank and fashion of the metropolis. It is at 
one of these “at homes” that we would now 
present our reader — not, indeed, during the full 
moon of the reception, when the crowded rooms, 
suffocating with heat, were crammed with 
visitors, talking in every tongue of Europe, and 
every imaginable dialect of each. The great 
niclee tournament was over, and a few merely 
lingered over the now empty lists, discussing in 
familiar converse the departed guests and the 
events of the evening. 

This privy council consisted of the reader’s 
old acquaintance, Haggerstone, a Russo-Polish 
Count Petrolaffski, a dark, sallow-skinned, odd- 
looking gentleman, whose national predilections 
had raised him to the rank of an enemy to the 
emperor, but wdiose private resources, it was 
rumored, came from the Imperial treasury, to 
reward his services as a spy ; a certain Mr. 
Scroope Purvis, the brother of Mrs. Ricketts, 
completing the party. He was a little rosy- 
cheeked old man, with a limp and a stutter, 
perpetually running about, retailing gossip, 
which, by some accident or other, he invariably 
got all wrong, never, on even the most trifling oc- 
casion, being able to record a fact as it occurred. 

Such were the individuals of a group which 
sat around the fire in close and secret confab, 
Mrs. Ricketts herself placed in the midst, her 
fair proportions gracefully disposed in a chair 
whose embroidery displayed all the quarterings 
and emblazonment of her family for centuries 
back. The “Bill” before the house was the 
Onslow T s, whose res gestce were causing a most 
intense interest every where. 

“ Have dey return your call, madam ?” asked 
the Pole, with an almost imperceptible glance 
beneath his dark brows. 

“ Not yet, count ; we only left our cards 
yesterday.” This, be it said in parenthesis, 
was “inexact” — the visit had been made eight 
days before. “Nor should we have gone at all, 
but Lady Foxington begged and entreated we 
would. ‘ They will be so utterly without guid- 
ance of any kind,’ she said; ‘you must really 
take them in hand.’ ” 

“And you will take dem in your hand — eh?” 

“That depends, my dear count — that de- 
pends,” said she, pondering. “We must see 
what line they adopt here ; rank and wealth 
have no influence with us if ununited with moral 
and intellectual excellence.” 

“I take it, then, your circle will be more 
select than amusing, this winter,” said Hagger- 
stone, with one of his whip-cracking enuncia- 
tions. 

“ Be it so, colonel,” sighed she, plaintively, 
“ Like a lone beacon on a rock, with — I forget 
the quotation.” 

“ With the phos-phos-phos-phate of lime upon 
it?” said Purvis, “that new discov-co-covery ?” 

“ With no such thing ! A figure is, I per- 
ceive, a dangerous mode of expression.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” cried he, with a peculiar 
cackle, whose hysteric notes always carried 
himself into the seventh heaven of enjoyment, 


“ you would cut a pretty figure if you were to 
be made a beacon of, and be burned like Moses. 
Ha ! ha ! ha !” 

The lady turned from 'him in disdain, and ad- 
dressed the colonel. 

“ So you really think that they are embar- 
rassed, and that is the true reason of their 
coming ahvoad.” « 

“ I believe I may say, I know it, ma’am !** 
rejoined he. “ There is a kind of connection 
between our families, although I should be very 
sorry they’d hear of it — the Badelys and the 
Harringtons are first cousins.” 

“Oh, to be sure!” broke in Purvis. “Jane 
Harrington was father ; no, no, not father — she 
was mo-mo-mother of Tom Badely; no! that 
isn’t it, she was his aunt, or his brother-in-law, 
I forget which.” 

“ Pray be good enough, sir, not to involve a 
respectable family in a breach of the common 
law,” said Haggerstone, tartly, “ and leave the 
explanation to me.” 

“ How I do dislike dat English habit of 
countin’ cousins,” said the Pole; “you never 
see tree, four English togeder without a leetle 
tree of genealogie in de middle, and dey do sit 
all round, fighting for de fruit.” 

“Financial reasons, then, might dictate re- 
tirement,” said Mrs. Ricketts, coming back to 
the original theme. 

A very significant nod from Haggerstone in- 
ferred that he concurred in the remark. 

“ Four contested elections for a county, 
ma’am, a spendthrift wife, and a gambling son, 
rarely increase a man’s income,” said he, sen- 
tentiously. 

“Do he play? What for play is he fond 
of?” asked the Pole, eagerly. 

“Play, sir? There is nothing an English- 
man will not play at — from the turf, to tossing 
for sovereigns.” 

“ So Hamlet say, in Shakspeare, ‘ de play is 
de ting,’ ” cried the count, with the air of a 
man who made a happy quotation. 

“They are going to have plays,” broke in 
Purvis ; “ Jekyl let it out to-night. They’re 
to get up a Vau-vau-vau-vau — ” 

“ A tete de veau , probably, sir,” said Hagger- 
stone ; “in which case,” continued he, in a 
whisper, “you would be invaluable.” 

“No, it isn’t that,” broke in Purvis; “they 
are to have what they call Pro-verbs.” 

“ I trust they have engaged your services as 
Solomon, sir,” said Haggerstone, with that look 
of satisfaction which always followed an im- 
pudent speech. 

“ I heard the subject of one of them,” re- 
sumed the other, who was far too occupied 
with his theme to bestow a thought upon a sar- 
casm. “There’s a lady in love with — with— 
with her Mam-mam-mam — ” 

“ Her mamma,” suggested the Pole. 

“No, it isn’t her mamma; it’s her Mam- 
ame-ameluke — her Mameluke slave ; and he, 
who is a native prince, with a great many wives 
of his own — ” 


88 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ Oh, for shame, Scroope, you forget Martha 
is here,” said Mrs. Ricketts, who was always 
ready to suppress the bore by a call to order on 
the score of morals. 

“ It isn’t wrong, I assure you ; just hear me 
out; let me only explain — ” 

“ There, pray don’t insist, I beg you,” said 
Mrs. Ricketts, with a regal wave of her hand. 

“Why, it’s Miss Dalton is to play it, Jekyl 
says,” cried Purvis, in a tone of most imploring 
cadence. 

“And who may Miss Dalton be?” asked 
Mrs. Ricketts. 

“ She’s the niece — no she’s the aunt — or, 
rather, her father is aunt to — to — ” 

“He may be an old lady, sir; but, surely — ” 

“Oh, I have it now!” broke in Purvis. “It 
was her mother ; Miss Da-a-alton’s mother was 
uncle to a Stafford.” 

“ Perhaps I can shorten the pedigree,” said 
Haggerstone, tartly. “ The young lady is the 
daughter of a man whom this same Sir Stafford 
tricked out of his fortune ; they were distant 
relatives, so he hadn’t even the plea of blood- 
relationship to cover his iniquity. It was, how- 
ever, an Irish fortune, and, like a Spanish 
chateau, its loss is more a question of feeling 
than of fact. The lawyers still say that Dal- 
ton’s right is unimpeachable, and that the Ons- 
lows have not even the shadow of a case for a 
jury. 

“An’ have de lady no broder nor sister?” 
asked the count, who had heard this story with 
much attention. 

“ She has, sir, both brother and sister, but 
both illegitimate, so that the girl is the heiress 
to the estate.” 

“ And probably destined to be the wife of the 
young Guardsman,” said Mrs. Ricketts. 

“ Guessed with your habitual perspicacity, 
madam,” said Haggerstone, bowing. 

“ How very shocking ! What worldliness 
one sees every where !” cried she, plaintively. 

“ The world is excessively worldly, madam.” 
rejoined Haggerstone ; “ but I really believe 
that we are not a jot worse than were the Patri- 
archs of old.” 

“ Ah, oui, les Patriarches !” echoed the Pole, 
laughing, and always ready to seize upon an 
allusion that savored of irreverence. 

“ Count ! Colonel Haggerstone !” cried Mrs. 
Ricketts, in reproof, and with a look to where 
Martha sat. at her embroidery-frame. “ And 
this Miss Dalton — is she pretty ?” 

“ She is pretty at this moment, madam ; but 
with a clever hair-dresser and a good milliner, 
would be downright beautiful. Of course these 
are adjuncts she is little likely to find during her 
sojourn with the Onslows.” 

“ Poor thing ! how glad one would be to offer 


her a kinder asylum,” said Mrs. Ricketts, while 
she threw her eyes over the cracked china 
monsters and mock Vandykes around her; “a 
home,” added she, “where, intellectuality and 
refinement might compensate for the vulgar 
pleasures of mere wealth !” 

“ She may want such, one of these days yet, 
or I’m much mistaken,” said Haggerstone. 
“ Onslow has got himself very deep in railway 
speculations ; he has heavy liabilities in some 
Mexican mining affairs too. They’ve all been 
living very fast; and a crash — a real ‘crash’ ” 
— this word he gave with a force of utterance 
that only malignity could compass — “ is almost 
certain to follow. What an excellent stable 
will come to the hammer then ! There's a 
‘ Bonesetter’ colt worth a thousand guineas, 
with his engagements.” 

And now there was a little pause in the dia- 
logue, while each Tollo wed out the thoughts of 
his own mind. Haggex'stone’s were upon the 
admirable opportunity of picking up a first-rate 
batch of horses for a fourth of their value ; Mrs. 
Ricketts was pondering over the good policy of 
securing possession of a rich heiress as a mem- 
ber of her family, to be held in bondage as long 
as possible, and eventually — if it must be — 
given in marriage to some unprovided-for cou- 
sin ; the Pole’s dreams were of a rich wife ; 
and Purvis, less ambitious than the rest, merely 
reveled in the thought of all the gossip this 
great tvent, when it should come off^ would af- 
ford him ; the innumerable anecdotes he would 
have to retail of the family and their wasteful- 
ness ; the tea-parties he should enliven by his 
narratives ; the soirees he would amuse with 
his sallies. Blessed gift of imbecility ! how in- 
finitely more pleasurable to its possessor than 
all the qualities and attributes of genius ! 

“ Dat is ver pretty, indeed, tres jolie !” said 
the count, bestowing a look of approval at the 
embroidery-frame, whereupon, for eight mortal 
months, poor Martha labored at the emblazon- 
ment of the Ricketts’ arms ; “ de leetle dogs 
are as de life.” 

“ They are tigers, Monsieur le Comte,” re- 
plied she, modestly. 

“ Oh, pardon ! dey are ‘tigres !’ ” 

“Most puppies are somewhat tigerish, now- 
adays,” chimed in Haggerstone, rising to take 
his leave. 

“ You are leaving us early, colonel,” said the 
old general, as he awoke from a long nap on 
the little corner sofa, which formed his resting- 
place. 

“It is past two, sir ; and, even in your soci- 
ety, one can not cheat time.” Then, having 
acquitted himself of his debt of impertinence, he 
wished them good night. The others, als<\ 
took their leave and departed. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

KATE. 


Let us now return to Kate Dalton, whose 
life, since we last saw her, had been one round 
of brilliant enjoyment. To the pleasure of the 
journey, with all its varied objects of interest, 
the picturesque scenery of the Via Mala, the 
desolate grandeur of the Splugen, the calm and 
tranquil beauty of Como, succeeded the thou- 
sand treasures of art in the great cities where 
they halted. At first every image and object 
seemed associated by some invisible link with 
thoughts of home. What would Nelly think or 
say of this ? was the ever-recurring question of 
her mind. How should she ever be able to 
treasure up her own memories and tell of the 
wonderful things that every moment met her 
eyes ? The quick succession of objects all new 
end dazzling, were but so many wonders to 
bring back to that “dear fireside” of home. 
The Onslows themselves, who saw every thing 
without enthusiasm of any kind, appeared to 
take pleasure in the freshness of the young girl’s 
admiration. It gave them, as it wei'e, a kind 
of reflected pleasure, while, amid galleries and 
collections of all that was rare and curious, 
nothing struck them as half so surprising as the 
boundless delight of her unhackneyed nature. 

Educated to a certain extent, by watching 
the pursuits of her sister, Kate knew how to 
observe with taste, and admire with discrimina- 
tion. Beauty of a high order would seem fre- 
quently endowed with a power of appreciating 
the beauty of art — a species of relation appear- 
ing almost to subsist between the two. 

Gifted with this instinct, there w r as an inten- 
sity in all her enjoyments, which displayed itself 
in the animation of her manner, and the elevated 
expression of her features. The coldest and 
most worldly natures are seldom able to resist 
the influence of this enthusiasm ; however hard 
the metal of their hearts, they must melt be- 
neath this flame. Lady Hester Onslow herself, 
could not remain insensible to the pure sincer- 
ity and generous warmth of this artless girl. 
For a time the combat, silent, unseen, but 
eventful, was maintained between these two 
Opposite natures, the principle of good warring 
with the instincts of evil. The victory might 
have rested with the true cause — there was 
every prospect of its doing so — when Sydney 
Onslow, all whose sympathies were with Kate, 
and whose alliance had every charm of sister- 
hood, was suddenly recalled to England by ti- ; 
diugs of her aunt’s- illness. Educated by her 1 


Aunt Conway, she had always looked up to her 
as a mother, nor did the unhappy circumstances 
of her father’s second marriage tend to weaken 
this feeling of attachment. The sad news 
reached them at Genoa ; and Sj’dney, accom- 
panied by Dr. Grounsell, at once set out for 
London. If the sudden separation of the two 
girls, just at the .very moment of a budding 
friendship, was sorrowfully felt by both, to Lady 
Hester the event was any thing but unwelcome. 

She never had liked Sydney ; she now de- 
tested the notion of a step-daughter, almost of 
her own age, in the same society w T ith herself ; 

! she dreaded, besides, the influence that she had 
! already acquired over Kate, whose whole heart 
and nature she had resolved on monopolizing. 
It was not from any feeling of attachment or 
affection, it was the pure, miserlike desire for 
possession that animated her. The plan of 
carrying away Kate from her friends and home 
had been her own ; she , therefore, owned her ; 
the original title was vested in her ; the young 
girl’s whole future was to be in her haqjjs ; 
her “road in life” was to be at her dictation. 
To be free of Sydney, and the odious doctor, by 
the same event, was a double happiness, wdiich, 
in spite of all the decorous restraints bad news 
impose, actually displayed itself in the most 
palpable form. 

The Palazzo Mazzarini was now to be 
opened to the world, with all the splendor 
wealth could bestow, untrameled by any re- 
striction the taste of Sydney, or the prudence 
of the doctor might impose. Sir Stafford, ever 
ready to purchase quiet for himself at any cost 
of money, objected to nothing. The cheapness 
of Italy, the expectations formed of an English- 
man, were the ai'guments which always silenced 
him if he ventured on the very mildest remon- 
strance about expenditure : and Jekyl was im- 
mediately called int6 the witness-box, to show 
that among the economies of the Continent, 
nothing was so striking as the facilities of enter- 
taining. George, as might be supposed, had no 
dislike to see their own house the great centre 
of society, and himself the much sought-after 
and caressed youth of the capital. 

As for Kate, pleasure came associated in her 
mind with all that could elevate and exalt it — 
refinement of manners, taste, luxury, the fasci- 
nations of wit, the glitter of conversational 
brilliancy. She had long known that she was 
handsome, but she had never felt it till now ; 


90 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


never awoke to that thrilling emotion, which 
whispers of power over others, and which ele- 
vates the possessors of a great quality into a 
species of petty sovereignty above their fellows. 
Her progress in this conviction was a good deal 
aided by her maid; for, at Jekyl’s suggestion, 
a certain Mademoiselle Nina had been attached 
to her personal staff. 

It was not easy at first for Kate to believe 
in the fact at all, that she should have a peculiar 
attendant ; nor was it without much constraint 
and confusion that she could accept of services 
from one whose whole air and bearing bore the 
stamp of breeding and tact. Mademoiselle 
Nina had been the maid of the Princess Men- 
zikoff. the most distinguished belle of Florence, 
the model of taste and elegance in dress ; but 
when the princess separated from her husband, 
some unexplained circumstances had involved 
the name of the femmc-de-chanibre. so that, in- 
stead of “exchanging without a difference,” as 
a person of her great abilities might readily 
have done, she had disappeared for a while 
from the scene and sphere in which habitually 
she moved, and only emerged from her seclu- 
sion to accept the humble position of Kate Dal- 
ton’s maid. She was a perfect type of her own 
countrywomen in her own class of life. Small 
and neatl}’ - formed, her head was too large for 
her size, and the forehead over-large for the 
face, the brows and temples being developed 
beyoftd all proportion ; her eyes, jet black and 
deeply set, were cold, stern-looking, and sleepy, 
sadness, or rather weariness, being the charac- 
teristic expression of the face. Her mouth, 
however, when she smiled, relieved this, and 
gave a look of softness to her features. Her 
manner was that of great distance and respect 
— the trained observance of one who had been 
always held in the firm hand of discipline, and 
never suffered to assume the slightest approach 
to a liberty. She contrived, however, even in 
her silence, or in the very few words she ever 
uttered, to throw an air of devotion into her 
service that took away from the formality of a 
manner that at first seemed cold, and even re- 
pulsive. Kate, indeed, in the beginning, was 
thrown back by the studied reserve and defer- 
ential distance she observed ; but as days went 
over, and she grew more accustomed to the 
girl’s manner, she began to feel pleased with 
the placid and unchanging demeanor, that 
seemed to bespeak a mind* admirably trained 
and regulated to its own round of duties. 

While Kate sat at a writing-table adding a 
few lines to that letter which, began more than 
a week ago, was still far from being completed, 
Nina, whose place was beside the window, 
worked away with bent down head, not seeming 
to have a thought, save for the occupation be- 
fore her. Not so Kate ; fancies came and went 
at every instant, breaking in upon the tenor of 
her thoughts, or wending far away on errands 
of speculation. Now, she would turn her eye 
from the page, to gaze in wondering delight at 
the tasteful decorations of her little chamber — 


a perfect gem of elegance in all its details ; 
then, she would start up to step out upon the 
terrace, where even in winter the orange-trees 
were standing, shedding their sweet odor at 
every breeze from the Arno; with what rap- 
turous delight she would follow the windings 
of that bright river, till it was lost in the dark 
woods of the Cascini ! How the sounds of pass- 
ing equipages, the glitter and display of the 
movino- throng, stirred her heart, and then, as 
she turned back within the room, with what a 
thrill of ecstasy her eyes rested on the splendid 
ball-dress which Nina had just laid upon the 
sofa ! With a trembling hand she touched the 
delicate tissue of Brussels lace, and placed it 
over her arm in a graceful lold, her cheek 
flushing, and her chest heaving in consciousness 
of heightening beauty. 

Nina’s head was never raised, her nimble 
fingers never ceased to ply, but beneath her 
dark brows, her darker eyes shot forth a glance 
of deep and subtle meaning, as she watched the 
young girl’s gesture. ' 

“Nina,” cried she at last, “it is much too 
handsome for me ; although I love to look at it 
I actually fear to wear it. You know I never 
have worn any thing like this before.” 

“ Mademoiselle is too diffident and too unjust 
to her own charms ; beautiful as is the robe, it 
only suits the elegance of its wearer.” 

“ One ought to be so graceful in every ges- 
ture, so perfect in every movement beneath 
folds like these,” cried Kate, still gazing at tho 
fine tracery. 

“Mademoiselle is grace itself!” said she, in 
a low, soft voice, so quiet in its utterance, that 
it sounded like a reflection uttered unconsciously. 

“ Oh, Nina ! if I were so. If I only could 
feel that my every look and movement were not 
recalling the peasant girl ; for, after all, I have 
been little better — our good blood could not 
protect us from being poor, and poverty means 
so much that lowers !” 

Nina sighed, but so softly as to be inaudible, 
and Kate went on. 

“ My sister Nelly never thought so; she 
always felt differently. Oh ! Nina, how you 
would love her if you saw her, and how you 
would admire her beautiful hair, and those deep 
blue eyes, so soft, so calm, and yet so mean- 
ing.” 

Nina looked up, and seemed to give a glance 
that implied assent. 

“Nelly would be so happy here, wandering 
through these galleries and sitting for hours 
long in those beautiful churches, surrounded 
with all that can elevate feeling or warm im- 
agination ; she, too, would know how to profit 
by these treasures of art. The frivolous enjoy- 
ments that please me would be beneath her ; 
perhaps, she would teach me better things; 
perhaps I might turn from mere sensual pleas- 
ure, to higher and purer sources of happi- 
ness.” 

“ Will Mademoiselle pet'mit me to try this 
wreath?” said Nina, advancing with a garland 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


of white roses, which she gracefully placed ! 
around Kate’s head. 

A half cry of delight burst from Kate as she 
saw the effect in the glass. 

‘'Beautiful, indeed!” said Nina, as though 
in concurrence, with an unspoken emotion. 

lm But, Nina, I scarcely like this — it seems as 
though — f can not tell what I wish — as though 
I would desire notice — I, that am nothing — that 
ought to pass unobserved.” 

“You, Mademoiselle,” cried Nina, and for 
the first time a slight warmth coloring the 
tone of her manner ; “ you, Mademoiselle — the 
belle, the beauty, the acknowledged beauty of 
Florence.” f 

“Nina! Nina!” cried Kate, rebukingly. 

“ I hope Mademoiselle will forgive me. I 
would not for the world fail in my respect,” 
said Nina, with deep humility; “but I was 
only repeating what others spoke.” 

“I am not angry, Nina — at least, not with 
you,” said Kate, hurriedly. “ With myself, 
indeed, I’m scarcely quite pleased. But who 
could have said such a silly thing?” 

“Every one, Mademoiselle; every one, as 
they were standing beneath the terrace t’other 
evening. I overheard Count Labinski say it to 
Captain Onslow ; and then my lady took it up, 
and said, ‘ You are quite right, gentlemen ; there 
is nothing that approaches her in beauty.’ ” 

“Nina! dear Nina!” said Kate, covering 
her flushed face with both hands. 

“ The Count de Melzi was more enthusiastic 
than even the rest. He vowed that he had 
grown out of temper with his Raffaelles since 
he saw you.” 

A hearty burst of laughter from Kate, told 
that this flattery, at least, had gone too far. 
And now she resumed her seat at the writing- 
table. It was of the Splugen Pass and Como 
she had been writing ; of the first burst of 
Italy upon the senses, as, crossing the High 
Alps, the land of the terraced vine lay stretched 
beneath. She tried to fall back upon the mem- 
ory of that glorious scene, as it broke upon her ; 
but it was in vain. Other and far different 
thoughts had gained the mastery. It was no 
longer the calm lake, on whose mirrored sur- 
face snow-peaks and glaciers were reflected — 
it was not of those crags, over which the wild- 
fig and the olive, the oleander and the mimosa 
are spreading, she could think. Other images 
crowded to her brain ; troops of admirers were 
before her fancy ; the hum of adulation filled 
her ears ; splendid salons , resounding with de- 
licious music, and a-blaze with a thousand wax 
lights, rose before her imagination, and her 
heart swelled with conscious triumph. The 
transition was most abrupt, then, from a descrip- 
tion of scenery and natural objects to a narrative 
of the actual life of Florence : 

“Up to this, Nelly, we have seen no one, 
except Mr. Jekyl, whom you will remember as 
having met at Baden. He dines here several 
days every week, and is most amusing with his 
funny anecdotes and imitations, for he knows 


91 

every body, and is a wonderful mimic. You’d 
swear Doctor Grounsellwas in the next room, 
if you heard Mr. Jekyl’s imitation. There has 
been some difficulty about an opera-box, for 
Mr. Jekyl, who manages every body, will in- 
sist upon having Prince Midchekoff’s, which is 
better than the royal box, and has not succeed- 
ed. For this reason we have not yet been to 
the Opera ; and, as the palace has been under- 
going a total change of decoration and furniture, 
there has been no reception here as yet ; but 
on Tuesday we are to give our first ball. All 
that I could tell you of splendor, my dearest 
Nelly, would be nothing to the reality of what 
I see here. Such magnificence in every detail; 
such troops of servants, all so respectful and' 
obliging, and some dressed in liveries that re- 
semble handsome uniforms ! Such gold and 
silver plate ; such delicious flowers every where 
— on the staircase, in the drawing-room — here, 
actually, beside me as I write. And, oh ! Nel- 
ly, if you could see my dress ! Lace, with 
bouquets of red camelia, and looped up with 
strings of small pearls. Think of me, of poor 
Kate Dalton, wearing such splendor! And, 
strange enough, too, I do not feel awkward in 
it. My hair, that you used to think I dressed 
so well, myself, has been pronounced a perfect 
horror ; and although I own, it did shock me at 
first to hear it, I now see that they were per- 
fectly right. Instead of bands, I wear ringlets 
down to my very shoulders ; and Nina tells me 
there never was such an improvement, as the 
character of my features requires softening. 
Such quantities of dress as I have got too ! for 
there is endless toilet here ; and although I’m 
now growing accustomed to it, at first it wor- 
ried me dreadfully, and left me no time to read. 
And, a propos of reading, Lady Hester has 
given me such a strange book. ‘ Mathilde,’ it 
is called — very clever, deeply interesting, but 
not the kind of reading you would like; at least, 
neither the scenes nor the characters such as 
you would care for. Of course I take it to be 
a good picture of life in another sphere from 
what I have seen myself; and if jt be, I must 
say there is more vice in high society than I 
believed. One trait of manners, however, I can 
not help admiring : the extreme care that every 
one takes never to give even the slightest offense ; 
not only that the wrong thing is never said, but 
never even suggested ; such an excessive defer- 
ence to others' feelings bespeaks great refine- 
ment, if not a higher and a better quality. Lady 
Hester is delightful in this respect. I can not 
tell you how the charm of her manner grows 
into a fascination. Captain Onslow I see little 
of, but he is always good humored and gay ; 
and as for Sir Stafford, he is like a father in the 
kindliness and affection of his cordiality. Syd- 
ney I miss greatly ; she was nearly of my own 
age, and although so much superior to me in 
every way, so companionable and sister-like. 
We are to write to each other if she does net 
return soon. I intended to have said so much 
about the galleries, but Mr. Jekyl does quiz »o 


92 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


dreadfully about artistic enthusiasm, I am ac- 
tually ashamed to say a word ; besides, to me, 
Nelly, beautiful pictures impart pleasure less 
from intrinsic merit, than from the choice of 
subject and the train of thoughts they originate ; 
and for this reason I prefer Salvator Rosa to all 
other painters. The romantic character of his 
scenery, the kind of story that seems to sur- 
round his characters, the solemn tranquillity 
of his moonlights, the mellow splendor of his 
sunsets, actually heighten one’s enjoyment of 
the realities in nature. I am ashamed to own 
that Raffaelle is less my favorite than Titian, 
whose portraits appear to reveal the whole 
character and life of the individual represented. 
In Velasquez there is another feature — ” Here 
came an interruption, for Nina came with gloves 
to choose, and now arose the difficult decision 
between a fringe of silver filagree and a deep 
fall of Valenciennes lace, a question on both 
sides of which Mademoiselle Nina had much 
to say. In all these little discussions, the mock 
importance lent to mere trifles at first amused 
Kate, and even provoked her laughter ; but, by 
degrees, she learned, not only to listen to them 
with attention, but even to take her share in the 
consultation. Nina’s great art lay in her ca- 
pacity for adapting a costume to the peculiar 
style and character of the wearer, and, how- 
ever exaggerated were some of her notions on 
this subject, there was always a sufficiency of 
shrewd sense and good taste in her remarks to 
overbear any absurdity in her theory. Kate 
Dalton, whose whole nature had been simplicity 
and frankness itself, was gradually brought to 
assume a character with every change of toilet; 
for if she came down to breakfast in a simple 
robe of muslin, she changed it for a “ costume 
de paysanne” to walk in the garden; and this 
again for a species of hunting-dress to ride in 
the Cascini — to appear afterward at dinner in 
some new type of a past age. An endless 
variety of these devices at last engaging atten- 
tion, and occupying time, to the utter exclusion 
of topics more important and interesting. 

The letter was now to be resumed ; but the 
clew was lost} and her mind was only fettered 
with topics of dress and toilet. She walked 
out upon the terrace to recover her composure ; 
but beneath the window was rolling on that 
endless tide of people and carriages, that swells 
up the great flood of a capital city. She turned 
her steps to another side, and there, in the 
pleasure-ground, was George Onslow, with a 
great horse-sheet round him, accustoming a 
newly-purchased Arabian to the flapping of a 
riding-skirt. It was a present Sir Stafford had 
made her the day before. Every thing she saw 
——every thing she heard, recalled but one image 
— herself! The intoxication of this thought 
was intense. Life assumed features of delight 
and pleasure she had never conceived possible 
before. There was an interest imparted to 
every thing, since in every thing she had her 
share. Oh ! most insidious of all poisons is that 


of egotism, which lulls the conscience by the 
soft flattery we whisper to ourselves, making 
us believe that we are such as the world affects 
to think us. How ready are we to take credit 
for gifts that have been merely lent us by a 
kind of courtesy, and of which we must make 
restitution when called upon, with what appetite 
we may. 

For the time, indeed, the ecstasy of this de- 
lusion is boundless ! Who has not, at some one 
moment or other of his life, experienced the en- 
trancing delight of thinking that the world is 
full of his friends and admirers, that good wishes 
follow him as he goes, and kind welcomes await 
his coming? Much of our character for good 
or evil, of our subsequent utility in life, or our 
utter helplessness, will depend upon how we 
stand the season of trial. Kate Dalton possess- 
ed much to encourage this credulity ; she was 
not only eminently handsome, but she had that 
species of fascination in her air, which a clever 
French writer defines as the feminine essence, 
“ plus femme que le autres feinmesy If a very 
critical eye might have detected in her manner 
and address certain little awkwardnesses, a less 
exacting judgment would have probably been 
struck with them as attractions, recalling the 
fact of her youth, her simplicity, and the fresh- 
ness of her nature. Above all other charms* 
however, was the radiant happiness that beamed 
out in every word, and look, and gesture ; such 
a thorough sense of enjoyment — so intense a 
pleasure in life — is among the very rarest of all 
gifts. 

There was enough of singularity, of the ad- 
venturous, in the nature of her position to excite 
all the romance of her nature ; there was more 
than enough of real splendor around her to give 
an air of fact and truth, to the highest flights 
of her imagination. Had she been the sole 
daughter of the house and name, flatteries 
and caresses could not have been lavished on 
her more profusely — her will consulted — her 
wishes inquired — her taste evoked on every 
occasion. And yet with all these seductions 
about her she was not yet spoiled — not yet ! 
Home and its dear associations were ever pres- 
ent to her mind ; her humble fortune, and that 
simple life she used to lead, enforcing lessons 
of humility not yet distasteful. She could still 
recur to the memory of the little window that 
looked over the “ Murg,” and think the scenery 
beautiful. Her dear, dear papa was still all 
she had ever thought him. Nelly was yet the 
sweet-tempered, gentle, gifted creature she 
worshiped as a sister; even Hanserl was the 
kind, quaint emblem of his own dreamy “ Vater- 
land.” As yet no conflict had arisen between 
the past and the present — between the remem- 
brance of narrow fortune and all its crippling 
exigencies, and the enjoyment of wealth, that 
seems to expand the generous feelings of the 
heart. The lustre of her present existence 
threw, as yet, no sickly light over the bvgone 
— would it might have been so ! 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


A SMALL SUPPER PARTY. 


The great ball at the Mazzarini Palace 
11 came off” just as other great balls have done, 
and will continue to do, doubtless, for ages 
hence. There was the usual, perhaps a little 
more than the usual, splendor of dress and dia- 
monds — the same glare, and crash, and glitter, 
and crowd, and heat ; the same buoyant light- 
heartedness among the young ; the same cor- 
roding ennui of the old ; taste in dress was 
criticised — looks were scanned — flirtations de- 
tected — quarrels discovered — fans were mislaid 
— hearts were lost — flounces were torn, and 
feelings hurt. There was the ordinary measure 
of what people called enjoyment, mixed up with 
the ordinary proportion of envy, shyness, preten- 
sion, sarcasm, coldness, and malice. It was a 
grand tournament of human passions, in white 
satins and jewels ; and if the wounds exchanged 
were not as rudely administered, they were to 
the full as dangerous as in the real lists of com- 
bat. Yet, in this mortal conflict, all seemed 
happy; there was an air of voluptuous abandon- 
ment over every thing ; and whatever cares they 
might have carried within, as far as appear- 
ance went, the world went well and pleasantly 
with them. The ball was, however, a splendid 
one : there was every thing that could make it 
such. The salons were magnificent in decora- 
tion — the lighting a perfect blaze. There was 
beauty in abundance — diamonds in masses — and 
a Royal Highness from the Court, an insignifi- 
cant little man, it is true, with a star and a 
stutter, who stared at every one, and spoke to 
nobody. Still he was the centre of a glittering 
group of handsome aids-de-camp, who display- 
ed their fascinations in every gesture and look. 

Apart from the great flood-tide of pleasure — 
down which so many float buoyantly — there is 
ever on these occasions a deeper current that 
flows beneath, of human wile, and cunning, and 
strategy, just as, in many a German fairy tale, 
some curious and recondite philosophy lies hid 
beneath the little incidents related to amuse 
childhood. It would lead us too far from the 
path of our story were we to seek for this “ tiny 
thread amid the woof;” enough for our present 
purpose if we slightly advert to it, by asking 
our reader to accompany us to the small cham- 
ber which called Albert Jekyl master, and 
where now, at midnight, a little table of three 
covers was laid for supper. Three flasks of 
Champagne stood in a little ice-pail in one 
corner, and on a dumb waiter was arrayed a 


dessert, which, for the season, displayed every 
charm of rarity ; a large bouquet of moss-roses 
and camelias ornamented the center of the 
board, and shed a pleasant odor through the 
room. The servant — whose dress and look be- 
spoke him a waiter from a “ restaurant” in 
the neighborhood — had just completed all the 
arrangements of the table, placing chairs around 
it, and heaping fresh wood upon the hearth, 
when a carriage drew up at the door. The 
merry sound of voices, and the step of feet were 
heard on the stairs, and the next moment a 
lady entered, whose dress of black lace, adorn- 
ed with bouquets of blue flowers, admirably set 
off a figure and complexion of Spanish mould 
and character. To this, a black lace vail fastened 
to the hair behind, and worn across the shoulders, 
contributed. There was a lightness and intre- 
pidity in her step as she entered the room that 
suited the dark, flashing, steady glance of- her 
full black eyes. It would have, indeed, been 
difficult to trace in that almost insolent air of 
conscious beauty, the calm, subdued, and al- 
most sorrow-struck girl, whom we have seen as 
Nina in a former chapter ; but, however dis- 
similar in appearance, they were the same one 
individual, and the humble femme de chcimbrc 
of Kate Dalton was the celebrated ballet dancer 
of the great theater of Barcelona. 

The figure which followed was a strange 
contrast to that light and elegant form. Ho 
was an old short man, of excessive corpulence in 
body, and whose face was bloated and purplo 
with intemperance. He was dressed in the 
habit of a priest, and was in reality a canon of 
the Dome Cathedral. His unwieldy gait, his 
short and labored respiration, increased almost 
to suffocation, by the ascent of the stairs, and 
his cumbrous dress seemed doubly absurd be- 
side the flippant lightness of the “ Ballarina.” 
Jekyl came last, mimicking the old canon be- 
hind his back, and putting the waiter’s gravity 
to a severe test by the bloated expansion of his 
cheek and the fin-like motion of his hands as 
he went. 

“ Ecco me !” cried he out, with a deep grunt, 
as he sank into a chair, and wiped the big drops 
from his forehead with the skirt of his gown. 

“ You tripped up the stairs like a gazelle, 
padre,” said the girl, as she arranged her hair 
before the glass, and disposed the folds of her 
vail with all the tact of coquetry. 

A thick snort, like the ejaculation a hippo 


94 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIRE. 


potamus might have uttered, was the only reply, 
and Jekyl, having given a glance over the table, 
to see all was in order, made a sign for Nina to 
be seated. 

“ Accursed be the stairs, and he that, made 
them !” muttered the padre. “ I feel as if my 
limbs had been torn on the rack. I have been 
three times up the steps of the High Altar al- 
ready to-day, and am tired as a dog.’ 

“ Here is your favorite soup, padre,” said 
Jekyl, as he moved the ladle through a smoking 
compound, whence a rich odor of tomato and 
garlic ascended. “ This will make you young 
again.” N 

“ And who said I would wish to be young 
again,” cried the priest, angrily. “ I have ex- 
perience of what youth means every day in the 
confessional, and I promise you age has the 
best of it. 

“ Such a ripe and ruddy age as yours, pa- 
dre !” said the girl, with affected simplicity. 

“Just so, minx,” replied he; “such ripeness 
as portends falling from the tree ! Better even 
that than to be worm-eaten on the stalk — ay! 
or a wasp’s nest within, girl — you understand 
me.” 

“ You will never be good friends for half an 
hour together,” said Jekyl, as he filled their 
glasses with Champagne, and then touching his 
own to each, drank off a bumper. 

“ These are from Savoy, these truffles, and 
have no flavor,” said the padre, pushing away 
liis plate. “ Let me taste that lobster, for this 
is a half-fast to-day.” 

“ They are like the priests,” said Nina, 
laughing ; “all black without and rotten with- 
in !” 


“The ball went off admirably last night,” 
interposed Jekyl, to stop what he foresaw might 
prove a sharp altercation. 

“ Yes,” said Nina, languidly, “ The dresses 
were fresher than the wearers. It was the first 
time for much of the satin — the same could not 
be said for many of the company.” 

“ The Balderoni looked well,” said Jekyl. 

“Too fat — caro mio , too fat!” replied Nina. 

“ And she has eight penances in the week,” 
grunted out the canon. 

“ There’s nothing like wickedness for embon- 
point, padre,” said Nina, laughing. 

“ Angels always are represented as chubby 
girls,” said the priest, whose temper seemed to 
improve as he ate on. 

“ Midchekoff, I thought, was out of temper 
all the evening,” resumed Jekyl; he went about 
with his glass in his eye, seeking for flaws in 
the lapis lazuli, or retouches in the pictures ; 
and seemed terribly provoked at the goodness 
of the supper.” 

“I forgive him all, for not dancing with c my 
Lady,’ said Nina. “ She kept herself disen- 
gaged for the prince, for half the night, and the 
only reward was, his Russian compliment of, 
‘What a bore is a ball, when one is past the 
age of dancing !’ ” 

“Did the nuncio eat much?” asked the pa- 


dre, who seemed at once curious and envious 
about the dignitary. 

“ He played whist all night,” said Jekyl, 
“and never changed his partner V' 

“ The old Marchesa Guidotti ?” 

“ The same. You know of that, then, pa- 
dre ?” asked Jekyl. 

A grunt and a nod were all the response. 

“ What a curious chapter on “La vie privee” 
of Florence, your revelations might be, padre,” 
said Jekyl, as if reflectingly. “ What a deal 
of iniquity, great and small, comes to your ears 
every season.” 

I “ What a vast amount of it has its origin in 
that little scheming brain of thine, Signor Jek- 
yli, and in the fertile wits of your fair neighbor. 
The unhappy marriages thou hast made — the 
promising unions thou hast broken — the doubts 
thou hast scattered here, the dark suspicions 
there — the rightful distrust thou hast lulled, the 
false confidences encouraged — Youth ! youth ! 
thou hast a terrible score to answer for.” 

“ When I think of the long catalogue of vil- 
lainy you have been listening to, padre, not only 
without an effort, but a wish to check ; when 
every sin recorded, has figured in your ledger, 
with its little price annexed ; when you have 
looked upon the stormy sea of society, as a 
wrecker ranges his eye over an iron-bound 
coast in a gale, and thinks of the ‘waifs’ that 
soon will be his own ; when, as I have myself 
seen you, you have looked indulgently down on 
petty transgressions, that must one day become 
big sins, and, like a skillful angler, throw the 
little fish back into the stream, in the confidence 
that when full-grown you can take them ; when 
you have done all these things and a thousand 
more, padre, I can not help muttering to my- 
self — Age, age, what a terrible score thou hast 
to answer for !” 

“ I must say,” interposed Nina, “ you are 
both very bad company, and that nothing can be 
in worse taste than this interchange of compli- 
ments. You are both right to amuse yourselves 
in this world as your faculties best point out, 
but each radically wrong in attributing motives 
to the other. What, in all that is wonderful, 
have we to do with motives? I’m sure I have 
no grudges to cherish, no debts of dislike to pay 
off, any where. Any diablerie I take part in, is 
for pure mischief sake. I do think it rather a 
hard case, that, with somewhat better features, 
and I know a far shrewder wit than many 
others, I should perform second and third-rate 
parts in this great comedy of life, while many 
without higher qualifications are ‘cast for the 
best characters.’ This little score I do try and 
exact, not from individuals, but the world at 
large. Mischief with me is the child’s pleasure 
in deranging the chessmen when the players 
are most intent on the game.” 

“ Now, as to these Onslows — for we must be 
practical — padre mio,” said Jekyl, “ let us see 
what is to be done with them. As regards 
matrimony, the real prize has left for England — 
this Dalton girl may or may not bo a ‘hit” 


95 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


some aver that she is heiress to a large estate, 1 
o! which the Onslows have obtained possession, 
and that they destine her for the young Guards- 
man. < 1 his must be inquired into. My lady 
has * excellent dispositions,’ and may become i 
any thing, or every thing.” 

‘‘Let her come to ‘the Church,’ then,” 
growled out the canon. 

Gently, padre, gently,” said Jekyl ; “ you 
are really too covetous, and would drag the 
river always from your own net. We have 
been generous, hugely generous, to you for the 
last three seasons, and have made all your con- 
verts the pets of society, no matter how small 
and insignificant their pretensions. The vulgar, 
have been adopted in the best circles ; the ugly, 
dubbed beautiful ; the most tiresome of old 
maids, have been reissued from the mint as new 
coinage. We have petted, flattered, and fawned 
upon those ‘ interesting Christians,’ as the Tab- 
let would call them — ‘ till girls began to feel 
that there were no partners for a polka outside 
the Church of Rome, and that all the ‘ indulsr- 
ences’ of pleasure, like those of religion, came 
from the pope.’ We can not give you the On- 
slows, or, at least, not yet. We have yet to 
marry the daughter, provide for the friend, 
squeeze the son.” 

“ Profligate young villain ! — Reach me the 
Champagne, Nina; and, Nina, tell your young 
mistress, that it is scarcely respectful to come 
on foot «to the mid-day x mass ; that the clergy 
of the town like to see the equipages of the 
rich before the doors of the cathedral, as a 
suitable homage to the Church. The Onslows 
have carriages in abundance, and their liveries 
are gorgeous and splendid!” 

“ It was her own choice,” said Nina ; “ she 
is a singular girl for one that never before knew 
luxury of any kind.” 

“ I hate these simple tastes,” growled out the 
padre ; “ they bespeak that obstinacy which 
people call a ‘ calm temperament/ Her own 
dress, too, has no indication of her rank, Nina.” 

“ That shall be cared for, padre.” 

“ Why shouldn’t that young soldier come 
along with her ? Tell him that our choir is 
magnificent ; whisper him that the beautiful 
Marchesa di Guardoni sits on the very bench 
beside Miss Dalton.” 

Nina nodded an assent. 

“ The young girl herself is lax enough about 
her duties, Nina ; she has not been even once to 
confession.” 

“ That comes of these English !” cried Nina; 
“ they make our service a constant jest. Thero 
is always some vulgar quizzing about saint- 
worship, or relic reverence, or the secrets of the 
confessional, going on among them.” 

“ Does she permit this ?” asked the priest, 
eagerly. 

“ She blushes sometimes, occasionally she 
smiles with a good-humor meant to deprecate 
these attacks, and now and then, when the 
sallies have been pushed too far, I have seen her 
in tears some hours after.” 


“ Oh, if these heretics would but abstain from 
ridicule !” cried the canon. “ The least let- 
tered among them can scofT, and gibe, and rail. 
They have their stock subjects of sarcasm, too, 
handed down from father to son — poor witless, 
little blasphemies — thefts from Voltaire, who 
laughed at themselves — and much mischief do 
they work ! Let them begin to read, however 
— let them commence to ‘inquire,’ as the phrase 
has it, and the game is our own.” 

“ I think, padre,” said Jekyl, “ that more of 
your English converts are made upon principles 
of pure economy — Popery, like truffles, is so 
cheap abroad !” 

“ Away with you ! away with you,” cried the 
padre, rebukingly. “They come to us as tho 
children seek their mother’s breast. Hand me 
the maccaroni.” 

“ Padre mio,” broke in Jekyl, “ I wish you 
would be Catholic enough to be less popish. 
We have other plots in hand here, beside in- 
creasing the funds of the ‘ Holy Carmelites ;’ 
and while we are disputing about the spoil, the 
game may betake themselves to other hunting- 
grounds. These Onslows must not be suffered 
to go hence.” 

“ Albert is right,” interposed Nina. “ When 
the ‘Midchekoft” condescends to think himself 
in love with the Dalton girl — when the Guards- 
man has lost some thousands more than he can 
pay — when my lady has offended one-half of 
Florence, and bullied the other — then, the city 
will have taken a hold upon their hearts, and you 
may begin your crusade when you please. In- 
deed, I am not sure, if the season be a dull one, 
I would not listen to you myself.” 

“ As you listened once before to the Abbe 
D’Esmonde,” said the canon, maliciously. 

The girl’s cheek became deep red, and even 
over neck and shoulders the scarlet flush spread, 
while her eyes flashed a look of fiery passion. 

“ Do you dare — are you insolent enough 
to — ” 

Her indignation had carried her thus far, 
when, by a sudden change of temper, she 
stopped, and, clasping her hands over her face, 
burst into tears. 

Jekyl motioned the priest to be silent, w T hile 
gently leading the other into the adjoining room, 
he drew the curtain, and left her alone. 

“ How could you say that ?” said he, “ you 
padre, w*ho know that this is more than jest ?” 

“ Spare not the sinner, neither let the stripes 
be light — ‘ Non sit levis flagella,’ says Origen.” 

“ Are the ortolans good, padre ?” asked 
Jekyl, while his eye glittered wffth an intense 
appreciation of the old canon’s hypocrisy. 

“They are delicious! succulent and tender,” 
said the priest, wiping his lips. “Francesco 
does them to perfection.” 

“ You at least believe in a cook,” said Jekyl, 
but in so low a voice as to escape the other’s 
notice. 

“ She is sobbing still,” said the canon, in a 
whisper, and with a gesture toward the cur- 
tained doorway. “ I like to hear them gulping, 


96 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


down their sighs. It is like the glug-glug of a 
rich flask of ‘Lagrime.’ ” 

“But don’t you pity them, padre?” asked 
Jekyl, in mock earnestness. 

“Never! never! First of all, they do not 
suffer in all these outbursts. It is but decant- 
ing their feelings into another vessel, and they 
love it themselves ! I have had them for hours 
together thus in the confessional, and they go 
away after, so relieved in mind, and so light of 
heart, there’s no believing it.” 

“But Nina,” said Jekyl, seriously, “is not 
one of these.” 

“ She is a woman,” rejoined the padre, “and 
it is only a priest can read them.” 

“ You see human nature as the physician 
does, padre, always in some aspect of suffering. 
Of its moods of mirth and levity you know less 
than we do, who pass more butterfly lives !” 

“ True in one sense, boy ; ours are the stony 
paths — ours are the weary roads in life ! I 
like that Burgundy !” 

“ It's very pleasant, padre. It is part of a 
ease I ordered for the Onslows, but their butler 
shook the bottle when bringing it to table, and 
they begged me to get rid of it.” 

“ These wines are not suited to Italy general- 
ly,” said the canon; “but Florence has the 
merit of possessing all climates within the 
bounds of a single day, and even Chambertin 
is scarcely generous enough, when the Tra- 
montana is blowing !” 

“ Well, have you become better mannered ? 
May I venture to come in?” cried Nina, ap- 
pearing at the doorway. 

“ ‘ Ycnga pure !’ ‘ Venga pure !’ ” growled 
out the canon. “ I forgive thee every thing. 
Sit down beside me, and let us pledge a friend- 
ship forever.” - 

“ There then, let this be a peace-offering,” 
said she, taking the wreath of flowers from her 
own head and placing it on the brows of the 
padre. “You are now like the old Bacchus in 
the Boboli.” 

“And thou like — ” 

“Like what? speak it out!” cried she, an- 
grily. 

“ Come, come, do, I beseech you, be good 
friends,” interposed Jekyl. “ We have met for 
other objects than to interchange reproaches.” 

“These are but the ‘ iree amantium,’ boy,” 
said the priest; “the girl loves me with her 
whole heart.” 

“ How you read my most secret thoughts !” 
said she, with a coquettish affectation of sincer- 
ity. 

“Leetiones pravissimae would they be!” mut- 
tered he between his teeth. 

“ What is that ? What is he mumbling there, 
Albert?” cried she, hastily. 

“ It is a benediction, Nina,” replied Jekyl ; 
“did you not hear the Latin?” 

Peace was at last restored, and what between 


the adroit devices of Jekyl and the goodness of 
his Champagne, a feeling of pleasant sociality 
now succeeded to all the bickering, in which 
the festivity was prolonged to a late hour. The 
graver business which brought them together — • 
the Onslows and their affairs — being discussed, 
they gave way to all the seductions of their 
exalted fancies. Jekyl, taking up his guitar, 
warbled out a French love song, in a little 
treble a bullfinch might have envied ; Nina, 
with the aid of the padre’s beads for castanets, 
stepped the measure of a bolero ; while the old 
priest himself broke out into a long chant, in 
which Ovid, Petrarch, Anacreon, and his brevi- 
ary alternately figured, and under the influence 
of which he fell fast asleep at last, totally un- 
conscious of the corked mustaches and eye- 
brows with which Nina ornamented his reverend 
countenance. 

The sound of wheels in the silent street at 
last admonished them of the hour, and opening 
the window, Jekyl saw a brougham, belonging 
to Sir Stafford, just drawing up at the door. 

“ Francois is punctual,” said Nina, “looking 
at her watch ; “ I told him five o’clock.” 

“Had we not better set him down first?” 
said Jekyl, with a gesture toward the priest* 
“ he does not live far away.” 

“With all my heart,” replied she; “but 
you’re not going to wash his face?” 

“ Of course I am, Nina. The jest might 
cost us far more than it was worth*;” and so 
saying, Jekyl proceeded to arrange the disor* 
dered dress and disheveled hair of the padre, 
during the performance of Vhich the old priest 
recovered sufficient consciousness to permit him- 
self to be led down stairs and deposited in the 
carriage. 

An hour later and all was still ! Jekyl slum- 
bering peacefully on his little French bed, over 
which the rose-colored mosquito curtains threw 
a softened half-sunset hue; a gentle smile parted 
his lips, as in his dreams — the dreams of a happy 
and contented nature — he wove pleasant fancies 
and devised many a future scheme. 

In his own dreary little den, behind the 
“Duomo,” the padre also slept heavily, not a 
thought, not a single passing idea breaking the 
stagnant surface of his deep lethargy. 

Nina, however, was wakeful, and had no 
mind for repose. Her brilliant costume care- 
fully laid aside, she was arranging her dark hair 
into its habitually modest braid ; her very feat- 
ures composing themselves, as she did so, into 
their wonted aspect of gentleness and submis- 
sion. 

All the change in dress being little in com- 
parison with the complete alteration now ob- 
servable in her whole air and demeanor, she 
seemed a totally different being. And she was 
so, too: for while hypocrites to the world, we 
completely forget that we share in the deception 
ourselves ! 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


A MIDNIGHT 

It was past midnight, the Opera was just 
over, and the few privileged guests who were 
permitted to pay their visits to Lady Hester 
Onslow were assembling in the little drawing- 
room and boudoir, sacred to these exclusive 
receptions. Nothing could be in stronger con- 
trast than the gorgeous splendor of the apart- 
ment and the half-dressed, careless, lounging 
ease of the men as they stretched themselves on 
the ottomans, lounged on the sofas, or puffed 
their cigars, alike indifferent to the place and 
the presence of two ladies who, dressed in the 
very perfection of “ toilet,” did the honors of 
the reception. 

Lady Hester, who wore a small embroidered 
velvet cap, coquettishly set on one side of the 
head, and a species of velvet jacket, such as is 
common in Greece, lay upon a sofa beneath a 
canopy of pink-silk covered with lace ; a most 
splendidly ornamented hooka, the emerald mouth- 
piece of which she held in her hand, stood on a 
little cushion beside her ; while, grouped around 
in every attitude that taste or caprice suggested 
— on chairs, on cushions, squabs, u pric-dieux” 
and other drawing-room devices of a like nature 
— were some half-dozen men, whose air and 
bearing pronounced them long habituated to all 
the usages of society. One stamp of feature 
and style pervaded all ; pale, dark-eyed, black- 
bearded, and weary-looking, they seemed as 
though they were tired of a life of dissipation, 
and yet utterly incapable of engaging in any 
other. 

All, born to high rank, some to large fortune, 
they found that no other career was open to 
them, except vice in one shape or other. The 
policy of their rulers had excluded them from 
every road of honorable ambition ; neither as 
statesmen nor soldiers could they hope to win 
fame or glory. Their habits of life and the 
tone of society gave no impulse to the cultiva- 
tion of science or literature. The topics dis- 
cussed in their circle never by chance adverted 
to a book; and there they were, with heads 
whose development indicated all that was in- 
tellectual, with brows and foreheads that be- 
tokened every gift of mental excellence, wearing 
away life in the dullest imaginable routine of 
dissipation, their minds neglected, their hearts 
corrupted, enervated in body, and deprived of 
all energy of character ; they wore, even in 
youth, the exhausted look of age, and bore in 

G 


RECEPTION. 

every lineament of their features the type of las- 
situde and discontent. 

In the adjoining room sat Kate Dalton at a 
tea-table. She was costumed — for we can not 
use any milder word— -in a species of “ moyen- 
age” dress, whose length of stomacher and 
deep-hanging sleeves recalled the portraits of 
Titian’s time ; a small cap covered the back of 
her head, through an aperture in which the 
hair appeared, its rich auburn .masses fastened 
by a short stiletto of gold, whose hilt and han- 
dle were studded with precious stones ; a mas- 
sive gold chain with a heavy cross of the same 
metal, was the only ornament she wore. Widely 
different as was the dress from that humble 
guise in which the reader first knew her, the 
internal change was even greater still ; no long- 
er the bashful, blushing girl, beaming with all 
the delight of a happy nature, credulous, light- 
hearted, and buoyant, she was now composed 
in feature, calm, and gentle- mannered ; the 
placid smile that moved her lips, the graceful 
motion of her head, her slightest gestures, her 
least words, all displaying a polished ease and 
elegance, which made even her beauty an at- 
traction secondary to the fascination of her man- 
ner. It is true, the generous frankness of her 
beaming eyes was gone ; she no longer met you 
with a look of full and fearless confidence ; the* 
cordial warmth, the fresh and buoyant sallies of 
her ready wit, had departed, and in their place 
there was a timid reserve, a cautious, shrinking 
delicacy, blended with a quiet, but watchful 
spirit of repartee, that flattered by the very 
degree of attention it betokened. 

Perhaps our reader will not feel pleased with' 
us for saying that she was more beautiful now 
than before ; that intercourse with the world;, 
dress, manners, the tact of society, the stimulus- 
of admiration, the assured sense of her own 
charms, however they may have detracted from 
the moral purity of her nature, had yet invested 
her appearance with higher and more striking 
fascinations. Her walk, her courtesy, the pass- 
ing motion of her hand, her attitude as she sat, 
were perfect studies of grace. Not a trace was 
left of her former manner ; all was ease, pliancy, 
and elegance. Two persons were seated near 
her : one of these, our old acquaintance, George 
Onslow ; the other was a dark, sallow-visaged 
man, whose age might have been any thing 
from thirty-five to sixty — for, while his features- 


98 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


were marked by the hard lines of time, his 
figure had all the semblance of youth. B3’ a 
broad blue ribbon round his neck he wore the 
decoration of San Nicholas, and the breast of his 
coat was covered with stars, crosses, and orders 
of half the courts of Europe. This was Prince 
Midcfcikoff, whose grandfather, having taken an 
active part in the assassination of the Emperor 
Paul, had never been reconciled to the Imperial 
family, and was permitted to reside in a kind of 
honorable banishment out of Russia ; a punish- 
ment which he bore up under, it was said, with 
admirable fortitude. His fortune was reputed 
to be immense, and there was scarcely a capital 
of Europe in which he did not possess a resi- 
dence. The character of his face was peculiar, 
for, while the forehead and eyes were intellectual 
and candid, the lower jaw and mouth revealed 
his Calmuck origin, an expression of intense, 
unrelenting cruel ty being the impression at once 
conveyed by the thin, straight, compressed lips, 
and the long projecting chin, seeming even 
longer from the black-pointed beard he wore. 
There was nothing vulgar or commonplace about 
him; he never could have passed unobserved 
any where, and yet he was equally far from the 
type of high birth. His manners were perfectly 
well-bred ; and, although he spoke seldom, his 
quiet and attentive air, and his easy smile, 
showed he possessed the still rarer quality of 
listening well. 

There was another figure, not exactly of this 
group, but at a little distance off, beside a table 
in a recess, on which a number of prints and 
drawings were scattered, and in the contempla- 
tion of which he affected to be absorbed ; while, 
from time to time, his dark eyes flashed rapidly 
across to note all that went forward. He was 
a tall and singularly handsome man, in the dress 
of a priest. His hair, black and waving, cov- 
ered a forehead high, massive, and well-devel- 
loped ; his eyes were deep-set, and around the 
orbits ran lines that told of long and hard study 
— for the Abbe D’Esmonde was a distinguished 
scholar; and, as a means of withdrawing him 
for a season from the over-toil of reading, he had 
been attached temporarily as a species of Under- 
secretary to the Mission of the “ Nonce.” In 
this guise he was admitted into all the society 
of the capital, where his polished address and 
gentle manner soon made him a general fa- 
vorite. 

Equally removed from the flippant levity of 
the abbe as a class, and the gross and sensual 
coarseness of the “ old priest,” D’Esmonde was 
a perfect man of the world, so far as taking a 
lively interest in all the great events of politics, 
watching eagerly the changeful features of the 
times, and studying acutely the characters of 
the leading men, at whose dictates they were 
modified. Its pleasures and amusements, too. 
he was willing to partake of moderately and un- 
obtrusively ; but he held himself far apart from 
all those subjects of gossip and small talk which, 
in a society of lax morality, occupy so consider- 
able a space, and in which the great dignitaries, 


] who wear scarlet and purple-stockings, are often 
seen to take a lively and animated share. Some 
ascribed this reserve to principle ; others called 
! it hypocrisy ; and some again, perhaps with 
i more truth, deemed it the settled line of action 
of one who already destined himself for a high 
and conspicuous station, and had determined that 
his character should add weight and dignity to 
his talents. 

It might have been thought that he was a 
singular guest to have been admitted to recep- 
tions like the present ; but Jekyl, who managed 
every thing, had invited him, on the principle, 
as he said, that a gourmand has a decanter of 
water always beside him at dinner, “ not to 
drink, but because it looks temperate.” The 
abbe’s presence had the same effect. ; and cer- 
tainly his calm and dignified demeanor, his pol- 
ished address, and cultivated tone, were excellent 
certificates of good character for the rest. 

At the tea-table the conversation languished, 
or only went forward at intervals. Onslow’s 
French was not fluent, and he was silent from 
shame. Kate felt that she ought not to take 
the lead ; and the prince, habitually reserved, 
spoke very little, and even that in the discursive, 
unconnected tone of a man who was always ac- 
customed to find that any topic he started should 
be instantly adopted by the company. 

The cold and steady stare with which he 
surveyed her would, but a short time back, have 
covered her face with a blush ; she could not 
have borne unabashed the glance of searching, 
almost insolent meaning he bestowed upon her ; 
but now, whatever her heart might have felt, 
her features were calm and passionless ; nor did 
she in the slightest degree show any conscious- 
ness of a manner that was costing Onslow a 
struggle whether to laugh at, or resent. 

In one sense these two men were rivals, but 
each so impressed with proud contempt for the 
other, their rivalry was unknown to both. Kate, 
however, with her woman’s tact, saw this, and 
knew well how her least smile, or slightest 
word, inclined the balance to this side or to 
that. The prince was inveighing against the 
habit of wintering in Italy as one of the most 
capital blunders of the age. 

“We forget,” said he, “that, in our present 
civilization, art is always first and nature second, 
as we see evidenced in all the results of agri- 
culture. It is not the most fertile soil, but the 
highest-labored one, which produces the best 
fruits. So with respect to climate, we never 
bear in mind, that where nature does most, man 
always does least.” 

" According to that rule, prince, we should 
winter at St. Petersburg, and spend the dog- 
days at Calcutta,” said Kate, smiling. 

“ So we should,” replied he; “the appliances 
to resist heat or cold, of man’s invention, are far 
better adapted to enjoyment than the accidental 
variations of climate.” 

“In my country,” said Onslow, tartly, “men 
study less how to avoid the inclemencies of 
weather than to become indifferent to it. Hunt- 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


snooting, and deer-stalking, arc very sure 
methods to acquire this.” 

The prince paid no attention to the remark, 
but turned the conversation into another chan- 
nel, by asking Kate if she had ever read Fourier’s 
book ; from this he wandered away to the char- 
acteristic differences of national music ; thence 
to the discoveries then making in Central Amer- 
ica; and lastly, engaged her in an animated 
discussion of the question of slavery. On none 
of these points was he deeply or even well in- 
formed, but he possessed that fluency and facility 
which intercourse with society confers ; and as 
all his knowledge was derived from men, and 
not from books, it bore a certain stamp of 
originality about it that secured attention. Not, 
indeed, from George Onslow ; he was the most 
bored of men. None of the topics were his 
topics. Of TattersalPs, the Guards’ Club, the 
society of London, the odds on the “ Derby,” he 
could have discoursed well and pleasantly — 
from, what was “ wrong” with the Sambucca 
filly, to what was not right with Lady Flutter- 
ton’s niece, he could have told you every thing ; 
but all these other themes were, in his estima- 
tion, but sheer pedantry ; and, indeed, they only 
lacked a little knowledge — a very little would 
have sufficed — to be so,, 

“ He is gone,” said the prince, with a caustic 
smile which revealed a plan ; “ gone at last.” 

“ So, then, this was a device of yours, prince,” 
said she, laughing. “ I really must call my 
cousin back, and tell him so.” 

“No, no,” said he, seriously. “I have won 
my battle, let me profit by my victory. Let me 
speak to you on another subject.” He drew 
his chair a little nearer to the table as he spoke, 
and laid his arm on it. Kate’s heart beat fast 
and full ; the color came and went rapidly in 
her cheek ; a vague sense of fear, of shame, and 
of triumphant pride were all at conflict within 
her. There was but one theme in the world 
that could have warranted such a commence- 
ment — so serious, so grave, so purpose-like. 
Was this, then, possible ? The glittering stars 
. — all a blaze of brilliants — that shone beside 
her, seemed an emblem of that high state which 
was now within her reach ; and what a torrent 
of varied emotions rushed through her heart. 
Of home, of her father, of Nelly, of Frank, and, 
lastly, what thoughts of George — poor George 
— whom she knew loved her, and to whom, 
without loving, she was not altogether indiffer- 
ent. “ Do not be agitated, mademoiselle,” said 
the prince, laying the slightest touch of his 
jeweled fingers on her arm ; “ I ask a little 
patience, and a little calm consideration, for 
what I am about to say.” 

“Is that really like an Irish peasant’s cottage, 
Miss Dalton?” said the abbe, as he held before 
her a drawing of one, in all the details of its most 

striking misery. - , , 1 • 

“Yes, perfectly — not exaggerated in the 
least,” said she, hurriedly, blushing alike at the 
surprise and the interruption. 

“You have no such misery. Monsieur le 


99 

Prince, in Russia, I believe?” remarked the 
priest, with a courteous bend of the head. 

“We are well governed, sir; and nothing 
displays it more palpably than that no man for- 
gets his station,” said the prince, with an insolent 
hauteur that made Kate blush over neck and 
forehead, while D'Esmonde stood calm and pas- 
sionless under the sarcasm. 

“ So I have always heard, sir,” said he, 
blandly. “I remember, when at Wredna — ” 

“You have been at Wredna?” asked the 
prince, in an altered voice. 

But the other, not heeding the interruption, 
went on. . 

“ I remember, when at Wredna, to have heard 
an anecdote, which strikingly illustrates the 
rigid obedience yielded to power, and the con- 
dition of public opinion at the same time. A 
manumitted slave, who was raised to high rank 
and wealth by the favor of the czar, had returned 
to Wredna in the capacity of governor. A short 
time after his arrival, he was tormented by ap- 
plications and letters from a woman in great 
poverty, who asserted that she was his mother. 
Fedeorovna, of course, in secret, proved the 
truth of her assertion, but the only answer she 
received was a significant caution to be silent, 
and not appeal to a relationship which could 
only prove offensive. Perhaps, incredulous of 
the authentic character of so cruel a reply— 
perhaps, stung to angry indignation by it, she 
carried the humble basket of fruit and vegetables 
that she hawked for a livelihood before the door 
of the great mansion where her son resided, but, 
instead of advertising her wares, as is customary 
in these Muscovite markets, by some picture of 
a saint or some holy inscription, she carried a 
little placard, with the inscription, : The Mother 
of Alexovitch,’ the name of the governor. A 
crowd soon gathered around this singular booth, 
heralded by so strange an announcement, and as 
speedily the police resorted to the spot, and car- 
ried the offender before the judge. The defense 
was the simple one — that she had merely averred 
the truth. I need not weary you with the 
mockery of investigation that followed, the 
result is all I need toll. This woman was 
knouted and sent away to Siberia. So much 
for the governor. As for the governed, they 
were enthusiastic in praise of his justice and 
clemency ; for he might have ordered her to be 
beheaded.” 

“Do you tell the story as a fact, sir?” said 
the prince, whose dark cheek became almost 
green in its sallowness as he spoke. 

“ I tell it distinctly as a fact. The Papa who 
received the woman’s confession repeated the 
tale on his own death-bed, from whence it 
reached me.” 

“ Priests can be liars, whether Greek or 
Roman,” said the prince in a voice almost suffo- 
cated with passion ; and then, suddenly checking 
the course of his anger, he turned to Kate with a 
sickly smile, and said, “ Mademoiselle will par- 
don a rudeness in her presence which nothing 
short of so gross a calumny could have elicited.” 


100 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LTFE. 


“ I will furnish you with all the names to- 
morrow, Monsieur le Prince,” said D’Esmonde, 
in a whisper ; and sauntered away into the ad- 
joining room. 

“You look pale, Miss Do.lton,” said the 
prince. 

“That shocking story — ” 

“ Which, of course, you don’t believe.” 

“ The Abbe D’Esmonde I have always heard 
to be a person of strict veracity, and of extreme 
caution.” 

“Be careful of him, Miss Dalton. It is not 
without good reason that I say this.” 


There was a degree of solemnity in the way 
he uttered these words that made Kate thought- 
ful and serious. Unaccustpmed to see in soci- 
ety any thing but features of pleasure and 
amusement, she was suddenly awakened to the 
conviction that its calm waters covered rocks 
and quicksands as perilous as stormier seas. 
Could people so full of amiabilities be danger- 
ous acquaintances ? was there poison in this 
charmed cup ? was the doubt which sprung to 
her mind ; but she had not time for the inquiry, 
as the prince offered her his arm to the supper- 
room. r 

\ ' ;!/’ v < 


CHAPTER XXV. 

. 3 . 

A “ LEVANTER.” 


In our penal settlements, nothing is more 
common than to find the places of honor and 
distinction filled by men who were once con- 
victs, and who may date the favorable turn of 
their fortune to the day of their having trans- 
gressed the law ! so in certain continental cities 
are individuals to be found occupying conspicu- 
ous stations, and enjoying a large share of influ- 
ence, whose misdeeds at home first made them 
exiles, and who, leaving England in shame, are 
received abroad with honor. There is this dif- 
ference between the two cases : for, while the 
convict owes all his future advancement to his 
own efforts at reformation, the absentee obtains 
his “ brevet” of character by the simple fact of 
his extradition. He shakes off his rascalities as 
he does his rheumatism, when he quits the 
foggy climate of England, and emerges, spot- 
less and without stain, upon the shores of Os- 
tend or Boulogne. 

To do this, however, he must not bear a 
plebeian name, nor pertain to the undistinguish- 
able herd of vulgar folk. He must belong to 
some family of mark and note, with peers for 
his uncles, and peeresses for cousins ; nor is he 
always safe if he himself be not a member of an 
hereditary legislature. We have been led to 
these reflections by having to chronicle the arri- 
val in Florence of Lord Norwood ; a vague and 
confused murmur of his having done something, 
people knew not what, in England, having pre- 
ceded him. Some called him poor “ Norwood,” 
and expressed sorrow for him *, others said he 
was a capital fellow, up to every thing, and 
that they were delighted at his coming. A 
few, of very tender and languishing virtue 
themselves, wondered if they ought to meet 


him as before, but the prevailing impression 
was charitable. The affair at Graham’s might 
have been exaggerated: the Newmarket busi- 
ness was possibly a mistake. “ Any man might 
owe money, and not be able to pay it,” was a 
sentiment pretty generally repeated, and as gen- 
erally believed, and, in fact, if to be tried by 
one’s peers be an English privilege, the noble 
viscount here enjoyed it at the hands of a jury 
unimpeachable on the score of equality. 

We are far from suggesting that Norwood’s 
character as a “shot” had any concern with 
this mild verdict ; but, certain it is, his merits 
in this capacity were frequently remembered, 
and always with honorable mention. 

“ No man plays ecarte better !” said Hagger- 
stone, while, as yet, the viscount’s arrival was 
unknown ; and, as he discussed the rumors upon 
him before a group of listening Englishmen, at 
the door of the “ Club,” “ No man plays ecarte 
better — nor with better luck !” added he, in a 
chuckle, that was intended to convey a meaning 
beyond the mere words. 

“ Has he been a large winner, then ?” asked 
one of the bystanders, respectfully, looking to 
the colonel for information — for, in a certain 
set, he was regarded as the most thoroughly 
conversant man with all the faults and follies oi 
high life. 

“ No man wins invariably, sir, except Brooke 
Morris, perhaps,” replied he, always happy at 
the opportunity to quote the name of a man of 
fashion in a tone of familiarity. 

“ That was the Mo — Mo — Morris that 
ruined Hopeton, wasn’t it ?” broke in Purvis, 
quite forgetting that the individual he addressed, 
was reported to have a share in the transaction. 


101 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Haggerstone, however, did not deign a reply, 
bat pulled his cigar in perfect contempt of his 
questioner. 

. U W 4° is this Coming up here?” said one ; 

he looks like a new arrival. He is English, 
certainly that (rock has a London cut — there’s 
no mistaking.” 

By Jove ! it’s Norwood,” cried Hagger- 
stone, edging away, as he spoke, from the 
group. Meanwhile, the */oble viscount, a well- 
dressed, well- whiskered man, of about thirty, 
came leisurely forward, and, touching his hat 
familiarly, feaid, 

“ Ha ! you here, Haggerstone — what is Flor- 
ence doing ?” 

“ Pretty much as it always did, my lord. I 
don t think its morals have improved since you 
knew it a few years ago.” 

u Or you wouldn’t be here, Haggy — eh ?” 
said the, viscount laughing at his own joke. 
“Not suit your book, if it took a virtuous turn 
—eh ?” 

“I plead guilty, my lord. I believe I do 
like to shoot folly as it flics.” 

“ Ah, yes ! And I’ve seen you taking a sit- 
ting shot at it too, Haggy,” said the other, with 
a heartier laugh, which, despite of the colonel’s 
efforts not to feel, brought a crimson flush to 
his cheek, 

“ Is there any play going on, Haggy ?” 

“ Nothing that you would call play, my lord ; 
a little whist for Nap. points, a little ecartc , a 
little piquet, and, now and then, we have a 
round game at Sabloukoff’s.” 

“ Poor old fellow ! and he’s alive still? And 
where’s the Jariominski ?” 

“ Gone back to Russia.” 

“ And Maretti ?” 

“In Saint Angelo, I believe .’ \ 

“And that little Frenchman — what was his 
name ? his father was a marshal of the Em- 
pire.” 

“ D’ Acosta.” 

“ The same. Where is he ?” 

“ Shot himself this spring.” 

“ Pretty girl, his sister. What became of 
her?” 

“ Some one told me that she had become a 
Sceur de Charite.” 

“ What a pity. So they’re all broken up, I 
see.” 

“ Completely so.” 

“ Then what have you got in their place ?” 

“ Nothing fast, my lord, except, perhaps, 
your friends the Onslows.” 

“Yes; they’re going it, I hear. Isn’t there 
a rich niece, or cousin, or something of that 
sort with them?” 

“ They’ve got a prettyish girl, called Dalton; 
but, as to her being rich, I think it very unlike- 
ly, seeing that her family are living in Ger- 
many in a state of the very closest poverty.” 

“ And Master George, how does he carry on 
the war ?” said the viscount, who seemed quite 
heedless of the other’s correction. 

“ He pla} T s a little peddling ecarte now and 


then ; but you can see that he has burned his 
fingers, and dreads the fire. They say he’s in 
love with the Dalton girl.” 

“ Of course he is, if they live in the same 
house ; and he’s just the kind of fool to marry 
her, too. “ Who’s that little fellow, listening 
to us ?” 

“Purvis, my lord; don’t you remember him? 
He’s one of the Ricketts’ set.” 

“To be sure I do. How are you, Purvis? 
You look so young, and so fresh, I could not 
persuade myself it could be my old acquaint- 
ance.” 

u I’ve taken to homos — homos — homoe — ho- 
mos — ” Here he opened his mouth wide, and 
gasped till he grew black in the face. 

“What’s the word? Give it him, Haggy. 
It’s all up with him,” said the viscount. 

“ Homoeopathy — eh ?” 

“ Just so. Homos — homos — ” 

“ Confound it, man, can’t you be satisfied ? 
when you’re oneo over the fence, you needn’t 
go back to leap it. And how is the dear — 
what’s her name ? Agathe ? no, Zoe — how is 
she?” 

“ Quite well, my lord, and would be cha — 
cha — cha — rmed to see you.” 

“ Living in that queer humbug still — eh ?” 

“ In the Yill — ino, my lord, you mean?” 

“ Egad i she seems the only thing left; like 
the dog on the wreck. Eh, Haggy?” 

“Just so, my lord,” said the other, with a 
complacent laugh. 

“ What a mass of old crockery she must have 
got together by this time,” said the viscount, 
yawning with a terrible recollection of her tire- 
someness. 

“You came out with a yacht, my lord?” 
asked Haggerstone. 

“Pretty well, for a man that they call ru — 
ru — ruined,” said Purvis, laughing. 

Norwood turned a look of angry indignation 
at him, and then, as if seeing the unworthiness 
of the object, merely said — 

“ A yacht is the only real economy nowa- 
days. You get rid at once of all trains of serv- 
ants, household, stable people — even the bores 
of your acquaintance you cut oft'. Bv-by, 
Purvis.” And, with a significant wink at Hag- 
gerstone, he passed across the street, in time to 
overtake Onslow, who was just passing. 

“ I think I ga — ga — gave it him there,” 
cried Purvis, with a hysteric giggle of delight ; 
who, provided that he was permitted to fire his 
shot, never cared how severely he was himself 
riddled by the enemy’s fire. Meanwhile, the 
viscount and his friend were hastening forward 
to the Mazzarini Palace, as totally forgetful of 
Purvis as though that valuable individual had 
never existed. 

We may take this opportunity to mention, 
that when the rumors which attributed a grand 
breach of honorable conduct to Lord Norwood, 
had arrived at Florence, Sir Stafford, who never 
had any peculiar affection for the viscount, de- 
clared himself in the very strongest terms on 


102 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the subject of his offending, and took especial 
pains to show the marked distinction between 
occasions of mere wasteful extravagance, and 
instances of fraudulent and dishonest debt. 

It was in vain he was told that the rigid rule 
of English morality is always relaxed abroad, 
and that the moral latitude is very different in 
London and Naples. He was old-fashioned 
enough to believe that honor is the same in all 
climates ; and having received from England a 
very detailed and specific history of the noble 
lord’s misdoings, he firmly resolved not to re- 
ceive him. 

With all George Onslow’s affection and re- 
spect for his father, he could not help feeling 
that this was a mere prejudice — one of the 
lingering remnants of a past age ; a sentiment 
very respectable, perhaps, but totally inapplica- 
ble to present civilization, and quite impracti- 
cable in society. In fact, as he said himself, 
“ Who is to be known, if this rule be acted 
on?” What man, or, further still, what woman 
of fashionable life will stand this scrutiny ! To 
attempt such exclusiveness, one should retire 
to some remote provincial town — some fishing 
village of patriarchal simplicity ; and, even 
there, what security was there against ignoble 
offendings? How should he stand the ridicule 
of his club and his acquaintance, if he attempt- 
ed to assume such a standard ? These argu- 
ments were strengthened by his disbelief, or 
rather his repugnance to believe the worst of 
Norwood; and furthermore supported by Lady 
Hester’s open scorn for all such “ hypocritical 
trumpery,” and her avowal that the viscount 
should be received, by her , at least. Exactly, 
as of old, George Onslow’s mind was in a state 
of oscillation and doubt — now, leaning to this 
side, now, inclining to that — when the question 
was decided for him, as it so often is in like 
cases, by a mere accident ; for, as he loitered 
along the street, he suddenly felt an arm intro- 
duced within his own ; he turned hastily round, 
and saw Norwood, who, with all his customary 
coolness, asked after each member of the family, 
and at once proposed to pay them a visit. 

Of all men living, none were less suited than 
Onslow for assuming any part, or taking any 
decisive line, which could possibly be avoided, 
or even postponed. He hated, besides, to do 
an ungracious thing any where, or to any one. 
It might be, thought he, that Norwood’s scrape 
could all be explained away. Perhaps, after 
all, the thing is a mere trifle ; and if he were 
to take the decided line of cutting a man with- 
out due cause, the consequences might be most 
injurious. These, and fifty such like scruples, 
warred within him, and so engaged his attention, 
that he actually heard not one word of all that 
‘’town gossip” which Norwood was retailing 
for his amusement. At last, while following 
out his own thoughts, George came to the reso- 
lution of finding out, at once, the precise posi- 
tion in which Norwood stood, and to this end 
asked the last news from Newmarket. 

Norwood’s coolness never forsook him, at a 


question whose very suddenness was somewhat 
awkward. 

“ Bad enough,” said he, with an easy laugh. 
“ We have all of us been ‘ hit hard.’ Knolesby 
has lost heavily. Burchester, too, has had a 
smasher; and I myself have not escaped. In 
fact, George, the ‘ Legs’ have had it all their 
own way. I suppose you heard something 
about it out here ?” 

“ Why, yes ; there were reports — ” 

“Oh, hang reports, man. Never trust to 
old women’s tales. And that confounded fel- 
low, Haggerstone, I’m certain, has been spread- 
ing all kinds of stories. But the facts are sim- 
ple enough.” 

“I’m heartily glad you say so^ for, to tell 
you the truth, Norwood, my father is one of the 
prejudiced about this affair, and I am dying to 
be able to give him a full explanation of the 
whole.” 

“ Ah ! Sir Stafford, too, among the credu- 
lous!” said Norwood, slowly. “I could scarce- 
ly have supposed so. No matter ; only I did 
fancy that he was not exactly the person to form 
hasty conclusions against any man’s character. 
However, you may tell him — for, as for myself, 
I’ll not condescend to explain to any one but 
you — the thing is a very simple one. There 
was a mare of Hopeton’s, a Brockdon filly, 
entered for the Slingsby, and a number of us 
agreed to : go a heavy thing’ upon her against 
the field. A bold coup always, George, that 
backing against the field. Never do it, my 
boy, and particularly when you’ve a set of 
rascally foreign Legs banded against you — 
Poles and Hungarian fellows, George, the 
downiest coves ever you met, and who, in 
their confounded jargon, can sell you before 
your own face. Nothing like John Bull, my 
boy. Straight, frank, and open John forever ! 
Hit him hard, and he’ll hit you again ; but no 
treachery, no stab in the dark. Oh, no, no ! 
The turf in England was another thing before 
these Continental rascals came among us. I 
was always against admitting them within the 
ring. I black-balled a dozen of them at the 
club. But see what perseverance does; they’re 
all in now. There’s no John Bull feeling 
among our set, and we’re paying a smart price 
for it. Never trust those German fellows, 
George. Out of England there is no truth, no 
honor. But, above all, don’t back against the 
field ; there are so many dodges against you ; 
so many ‘dark horses’ come out fair. That’s 
it, you see ; that’s the way I got it so heavily ; 
for when Ruxton came and told me that “Help- 
me-Over” was dead lame, I believed him. A 
fetlock lameness is no trifle, you know ; and 
there was a swelling as large as my band 
around the coronet. The foreign fellows can 
manage that in the morning, and the horse will 
run to win the same day. I saw it myself. 
Ah, John Bull forever ! No guile, no deceit in 
him. Mind me, George, I make this confession 
for you alone. I’ll not stoop to repeat it. If 
any man dare to insinuate any thing to my dis- 


103 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


credit, I'd never give myself the trouble of one 
word ol explanation, but nail him to it — twelve 
paces, and no mistake. 1 don’t think my right 
hand has forgot its cunning. Have him out at 
once, George; parade him on the spot, my boy; 
that’s the only plan. What, is this your quar- 
ter'?” asked he, as they stopped at the entrance 
of the spacious palace. “ I used to know this 
house well of old. It was the Embassy in 
Templeton’s time. Vei*y snug it used to be. 
Glad to see you’ve banished all those maimed 
old deities that used to line the staircase, and 
got rid of that tiresome tapestry, too. Pretty 
vases those — fresh-looking that conservatory — 
they’re always strong in camelias in Florence. 
This used to be the billiard-room ; I think you’ve 
made a good alteration ; it looks better as a salon. 
Ah ! I like this — excellent taste that chintz fur- 
niture — -just the thing for Italy, and exactly what 
nobody ever thought of before !” 

“ I’ll see if my lady be visible,” said George, 
as he threw the Morning Post to his friend, and 
hastily quitted the chamber. 

Norwood was no sooner left alone, than he 
proceeded to take a leisurely survey of the 
apartment, in the course of which his attention 
was arrested by a water-color drawing, repre- 
senting a young girl leaning over a balcony, 
and which he had no difficulty in at once guess- 
ing to be Kate Dalton. There was something 
in the character of her beauty — an air of almost 
daring haughtiness — that seemed to strike his 
fancy, for, as he gazed, he drew himself up to 
his full height, and seemed to assume in his 
own features the proud expression of the por- 
trait. 

“ With a hundred thousand and that face, 
one might make you a viscountess, and yet not 
do badly either!” said he to himself; and then, 
as if satisfied that he had given time enough to 
a mere speculative thought, he turned over the 
visiting cards to see the names of the current 
acquaintance — “ MidchikofT, Estrolenka, Janini, 
Tiverton, Latrobe — the old set ; the Ricketts, 
too, and Haggerstone. What can have brought 
them here ? Oh ! there must have been a ball ; 
for here are shoals of outsiders — the great 
Smith-Brown-and-Thompson community ; and 
here, on the very smallest of pasteboards, in 
the very meekest of literals, have we our dear 
friend ‘ Albert Jekyl.’ He’ll tell me all I want 
to know,” said Norwood, as he threw himself 
back on the comfortable depth of a well-cush- 
ioned chair, and gave way to a pleasant reverie. 

When George Onslow had informed Lady 
Hester of Norwood’s arrival, he hastened to Sir 
Stafford’s apartment, to tell him how complete- 
ly the viscount had exonerated himself from any 
charge that might be made to his discredit; 
not, indeed, that George understood one sylla- 
ble of the explanation, nor could trace any thing 
like connection between the disjointed links of 
the narrative ; he could only affirm his own per- 
fect conviction in Norwood’s honor, and hope 
an equal degree of faith from his father. For- 
tunately for his powers of persuasiveness, they I 


were not destined to be sorely tried, for Sir 
Stafford had just walked out, and George, too 
eager to set all right about Norwood, took his 
hat and followed, in the hope of overtaking him. 

Lady Hester was already dressed, and about 
to enter the drawing-room, when George told 
her that Norwood was there ; and yet she re- 
turned to her room, and made some changes in 
her toilet, slight, and perhaps too insignificant 
to record, but yet of importance enough to oc- 
cupy some time, and afford her an interval for 
thoughts which, whatever their nature, served 
to flush her cheek and agitate her deeply. 

It is an awkward thing at any time to meet 
with the person to whom you once believed you 
should have been married — to see, on the terms 
of mere common acquaintance, the individual 
with whose fate and fortune you at one time 
fancied your own was indissolubly bound up, 
for weal or woe, for better or for worse. To 
exchange the vapid commonplaces of the world 
— to barter the poor counters of that petty game 
called society with her or him with whom you 
have walked, in all the unbounded confidence 
of affection, speculating on a golden future, or 
glorying in a delicious dream of present bliss — 
to touch with ceremonious respect that hand 
you have so often held fast within your own — 
to behold with respectful distance that form be- 
side which you have sat for hours, lost in happy 
fancies — to stand, as it were, and trace out with 
the eye some path in life we might have fol- 
lowed, wondering whither it would have led us, 
if to some higher pinnacle of gratified ambition, 
if to disappointments darker than those we have 
ever known ; speculating on a future which has 
already become a past, and canvassing within 
our hearts the follies that have misled and the 
faults that have wrecked us ! Such are among 
the inevitable reminiscences of meeting ; and 
they are full of a soft and touching sorrow, 
not ail unpleasing either, as they remind us of 
our youth and its buoyancy. Far otherwise 
was the present case. Whatever might have 
been the bold confidence with which Lady Hes- 
ter protested her belief in Norwood’s honor, her 
own heartfelt knowledge of the man refuted the 
assertion. She knew thoroughly that he was 
perfectly devoid of all principle, and merely 
possessed that conventional degree of fair deal- 
ing indispensable to association with his equals. 
That he would do any thing short of what 
would subject him to disgrace she had long 
seen; and perhaps the unhappy moment had 
come, when even this restraint was no longer a 
barrier. And yet, with all this depreciating 
sense of the man, would it be believed, that she 
had once loved him ! — ay, with as sincere an 
affection as she was capable of feeling for any 
thing. 

’Tis true, time and its consequences had 
effaced much of this feeling — his own indiffer- 
ence had done something — her new relations 
with the world had done more; and if she ever 
thought of him now. it was with a degree of 
half terror, that there lived one man who had 


104 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE, 


so thoroughly read all the secrets of her heart, 
and knew every sentiment of her nature. 

Norwood was sitting in a chair as she enter- 
ed, amusing himself with the gambols of a little 
Blenheim spaniel, whose silver collar bore the* 
coronet of the Russian prince. He never per- 
ceived Lady Hester until she was close beside 
him, and in an easy, half indifferent tone, said, 

“ How d’ye do, my lord ?” 

“ What, Hester !” said he, starting up, and 
taking her hand in both his own. 

She withdrew it languidly, and seating her- 
self, not upon the sofa to which he wished to 
lead her, but in a chair, asked when he had ar- 
rived, and by what route. 

“I came out in a yacht; stopping a few days 
at Gibraltar, and a week at Malta.” 

“ Had you pleasant weather ?” 

“ After we got clear of the Channel, excel- 
lent weather.” 

c ‘ You came alone, I suppose ?” 

“ Quite alone.” 

“ How do you get on without your dear friend 
Effingdale, or your ‘familiar,’ Upton?” 

Norwood colored a little at a question the 
drift of which he felt thoroughly, but tried with 
a laugh to evade an answer. 

“Are they in England? I thought I read 
their names at the Newmarket meeting?” asked 
she, after waiting in vain for a reply. 

“Yes; they were both at Newmarket,” re- 
plied he, shortly. 

“ Was it a good meeting ?” 

“ I can scarcely say so,” rejoined he, at- 
tempting a laugh. “ My book turned out very 
unfortunately.” 

“ I heard so,” was the short reply; and in a 
tone so dry and significant, that a dead silence 
followed. 

“ Pretty spaniel, that,” said Norwood, trying 
a slight sortie into the enemy’s camp. “ A 
present, I suppose, from Midchikoff?” 

“ Yes.” 

“It is not clean bred, however, no more than 
his late master. Have you seen much of the 
Prince ?” 

“ He comes here every evening after the 
Opera.” 

“ What a bore that must be — he is a most 
insufferable proser.” 

“I must say I disagree with you. I reckon 
him excessively agreeable.” 

“ How changed you must be, Hes — , Lady 
Hester.” 

“ I believe I am, my lord.” 

“ And yet you look the same — the very same 
as when we sauntered for hours through the old 
woods at Dipsley.” She blushed deeply ; less, 
perhaps, at the words, than at the look which 
accompanied them. 

“ Is this your newly-found niece, or cousin ?” 
said Norwood, as he pointed to the portrait of 
Kate Dalton. 

“ Yes. Isn’t she pretty ?” 

“ The picture is.” 

“ She is much handsomer, however — a charm- 


ing creature in every respect — as you will con- 
fess, when you see her.” 

“ And for what high destiny is she meant ? 
Is she to be a Russian princess, a duchess of 
Italy, or the good wife of an untitled English- 
man?” 

“ She may have her choice, I believe, of 
either of the three.” 

“Happy girl!” said he, half scornfully; “and 
when may I hope to behold so much excel- 
lence ?” 

“ To-day, if you like to dine here.” 

“ I should like it much — but — but — ” 

“ But what ?” 

“ It’s better to be frank at once, Hester,” 
said he, boldly, “ and say, that I feel you are 
grown very cold and distant toward me. This 
is not your old manner, this is not exactly the 
reception I looked for. Now, if you have any 
cause for this, would it not be better and fairer 
to speak it out openly, than continue to treat 
me in this slighting fashion ? You are silent — 
so, there is something. Pray, let’s hear it.” 

“What of Newmarket?” said she, in a low 
voice, so faint as almost to be a whisper. 

“ So, that’s it,” said he, as he folded his arms 
and looked steadfastly at her. 

There was something in the cold and steady 
gaze he bestowed upon her that abashed, if not 
actually alarmed Lady Hester. She had seen 
the same look once or twice before, and always 
as the prelude to some terrible evidence of his 
temper. 

“ Lady Hester,” said he, in a low, distinct, 
and very slow voice, as though he would not 
have her lose a word he spoke ; “ the explana- 
tion which a man would ask for at the peril of 
his life, ought not, in common justice, to be 
quite costless to a lady. It is perfectly possible 
that you may not care for the price, be it so ; 
only I warn you, that if you wish for any inform- 
ation on the subject you allude to, I will in- 
quire whether — ” 

Here he dropped his voice, and whispered 
two or three words rapidly in her ear ; after 
which she lay back, pale, sick, and almost 
fainting, without strength to speak, or even to 
move. - v. 

“ Do not say, or still less feel, that this con- 
test is of my provoking. Never was any man 
less in the humor to provoke hostilities, and 
particularly from old friends. I have just had 
bad luck — the very worst of bad luck. I have 
lost every thing but my head; and even that, 
cool and calculating as it is, may go, too, if I 
be pushed too far. Now you have a frank and 
free confession from me. I have told you moro 
than 1 would to any other living ; more, per- 
haps. than I ought even to you.” 

“Then what do you intend to do here?” 
asked she, faintly. 

“Wait — wait patiently for a while; fix upon 
any one that I can discover mutters a syllable 
to my discredit, and shoot him as I would a 
dog.” 

“ There may be some who, without openly 


105 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


discussing, will shun your society, and avoid 
your intercourse.” 

“ Sir Stafford, for instance,” said he, with an 
insolent laugh. She nodded slightly, and he 
went on : “ My lady’s influence will, I’m cer- 
tain, set me right in that quarter.” 

“ I may be unequal to the task !” 

u lou can, at least, try, madam.” 

c ' I have tried, Norwood. I have gone the 
length of declaring that I disbelieved every 
story against you — that I reposed the most im- 
plicit faith in your honor — and that I would 
certainly receive you, and admit your visits as 
heretofore.” 

“ And, of course, you’ll keep your word ?” 

“ If you exact it — ” 

u Of course I shall ! Hester, this is no time 
for quibbling. I’ve got into a mess — the worst 
of all the bad scrapes which have ever befallen 
me. A little time and a little management 
will pull me through — but I must have both; 
nor is it in such a place, and with such a soci- 
ety as this, a man need fear investigation. I 
came here, as formerly one went, to live ‘ with- 
in the rules.’ Let me, at least, have the benefit 
of the protection for condescending to the lo- 
cality.” 

“ Sir Stafford, my lady,” said a servant, 
throwing open the door; and the old baronet 
entered hastily, and, without deigning to notice 
Lord Norwood, walked straight up to Lady 
Hester, and said a few words in a low voice. 

Affecting to occupy himself with the books 
upon the table, Norwood watched the dialogue 
with keen but stealthy glances, and then, as the 
other turned suddenly round, said, 

“ How d’ye do, Sir Stafford ? I am glad to 
see you looking so well.” 

“ I thank you, my lord, I am perfectly well,” 
said he, with a most repelling coldness. 

“You are surprised to see me in Florence, 
for certain,” said the other, with a forced 
laugh. 

“ Very much surprised to see you here , my 
lord,” was the abrupt reply. 

“Ha! ha! ha! I thought so!” cried Nor- 
wood, laughing, and pretending not to feel the 
point of the remark. “But, nowadays, one 
flits about the world in slippers and dressing- 
gown, and traveling inflicts no fatigue. I only 
left England ten days ago.” 

“ The post comes in seven, my lord,” said 
Sir Stafford; “I have had letters this morning, 
written this day week, and which give the 
last events in town life up to the very hour.” 

“Indeed! and what’s the news, then?” said 
he, negligently. 

“ If your lordship -will favor me with your 
company for a few minutes, I may be able to 
enlighten you,” said Sir Stafford, moving toward 
the door. 

“ With the greatest pleasure. Good-by, 
Lady Hester,” said he, rising; “you said seven 
o'clock dinner, I think.” 

“Yes,” replied she; but in a voice almost 
inarticulate, from shame and terror. 


j “ Now, Sir Stafford, I’m at your orders,” 
said the viscount, gayly, as he left the room, 
followed by the old man, whose crimson cheek, 
and flashing eye bespoke the passion which 
was struggling within him. 

Of the two who now entered Sir Stafford’s 
library, it must be owned that Lord Norwood 
was, by many degrees, the more calm and col- 
lected. No one, to have looked at him, could 
possibly have supposed that any question of in- 
terest, not to say of deep moment, awaited him ; 
and as he carried his eyes over the well-filled 
shelves, and the handsome fittings of the chain- 
ber, nothing could ,be more naturally spoken 
than the few complimentary expressions on Sir 
Stafford’s good taste and judgment. 

“I shall not ask you to be seated, my lord,” 
said the old baronet, whose tremulous lip, and 
shaking cheek showed how deep-felt was his 
agitation. “ The few moments of interview I 
have requested will be, I have no doubt, too 
painful to either of us ; nor could we desire to 
prolong them. To me, I own, they are very, 
very painful.” 

These hurried, broken, and unconnected sen- 
tences, fell from him as he searched for a letter 
among a number of others that littered the 
table. 

Lord Norwood bowed coldly, and, without 
making any reply, turned his back to the fire, 
and waited in patience. 

“I have, I fear, mislaid the letter,” said Sir 
Stafford, whose nervous anxiety had now so 
completely mastered him, that he threw the 
letters and papers on every side without per- 
ceiving it. 

The viscount made no sign, but suffered the 
search to proceed without remark. 

“ It was a letter from Lord Effingdale,” con- 
tinued the baronet, still busied in the pursuit ; 
“a letter written after the Newmarket settling, 
my lord ; and, if I should be unfortunate enough 
not to find it, I must only trust to my memory 
for its contents.” 

Lord Norwood gave another bow, slighter 
and colder than the former, as though to say 
that he acquiesced perfectly, without knowing 
in what. 

“ Ah ! here he is ! here he is !” cried Sir 
Stafford, at last detecting the missing docu- 
ment, which he hastily opened and ran his eyes 
over. “ This letter, my lord,” continued he, 

“ announces that, in consequence of certain de- 
falcations on your part, the members of the 
‘ Whip Club’ have erased your lordship’s name 
from their list, and declared you incapacitated 
from either entering a horse, or naming a win- 
ner for the stakes in future. There, there, my 
lord, is the paragraph, coupled with what you 
will doubtless feel to be a very severe, but just 
comment on the transaction.” 

Norwood took the letter and read it leisurely 
— as leisurely and calmly as though the con- 
tents never concerned him, and then, folding it 
up, laid it on the chimney-piece beside him. 

“Poor Effingdale!” said he, smiling; “ho 


106 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ought to spell better, considering that his moth- 
er was a governess. He writes ‘ naming 1 with 
an ‘ e.’ Didn’t you remark that?” 

But, as Sir Stafford paid no attention to the 
criticism, he went on : 

“As to the ‘ Whip,’ I may as well tell you, 
that I scratched my own name, myself. They 
are a set of low ‘Legs,’ and, except poor Effy, 
and two or three others of the same brilliant 
stamp, not a gentleman among them.” 

“The defalcation is, however, true?” asked 
Sir Stafford. 

“ If you mean to ask whether a man always 
wins at Doncaster or Newmarket, the question 
is of the easiest to answer.” 

“I certainly presume that he always pays 
what he loses, my lord,” replied Sir Stafford, 
coloring at the evasive impertinence of the 
other. './ 

“ Of courso he does, when he has it ! Sir 
Stafford ; but that is a most essential condition, 
for the ‘ Turf’ is not precisely like a mercantile 
pursuit.” 

Sir Stafford winced under the flippant inso 
lence with which this was spoken. 

“ There is not exactly a fair way to calculate 
profit, nor any assurance against accidental loss. 
A horse, Sir Stafford, is not an Indiaman ; a 
betting man is, therefore, in a position quite 
exceptional.” 

“If a man risks what he can not pay, he is 
dishonorable,” said Sir Stafford, in a short, ab- 
rupt tone. 

“ I see that you can not enter into a theme 
so very different from all your habits and pur- 
suits. You think there is a kind of bankruptcy 
when a man gets a little behind with his bets. 
You don’t see that all these transactions are on 
‘honor,’ and that if one does ‘bolt,’ he means 
to ‘ book up’ another time. There was George, 
your own son — ” 

“ What of him ? what of George?” cried Sir 
Stafford, with a convulsive grasp of the chair, 
while all the color fled from his cheek, and he 
seemed ready to faint with emotion. 

“ Oh, nothing in the world to cause you 
uneasiness. A more honorable fellow never 
breathed than George.” 

“ Then, what of him ? How comes his name 
to your lips at such a discussion as this ? Tell 
me, this instant, my lord. I command — I en- 
treat you !” ’ • , s . . ; 

And the old man shook like one in an ague ; 
but Norwood saw his ’vantage ground, and de- 
termined to use it unsparingly. He, therefore, 
merely smiled, and said, 

“ Pray, be calm, Sir Stafford. I repeat, that 
there is nothing worthy of a moment’s chagrin. 

I was only about to observe, that if I had the 
same taste for scandal-writing as poor Effy, I 
might have circulated a similar story about your 
son George. He left England, owing me a 
good round sum, for which, by the way, I was 
terribly ‘hard up;’ and, although the money 
was paid eventually, what would you have 
thought of me — what would the world have | 


thought of him — if I had written such an epistle 
as this?” 

And, as he spoke, his voice and manner 
warmed into a degree of indignant anger, in 
which, as if carried away, he snatched the let- 
ter from the chimney-piece, and threw it into 
the fire. The act was unseen by Sir Stafford, 
who sat with his head deeply buried between 
his hands, a low faint groan alone bespeaking 
the secret agony of his heart. 

“My son has, then, paid you? He owes 
nothing, my lord?” said he, at last looking up, 
with a countenance furrowed by agitation. 

“ Like a trump !” said Norwood, assuming 
the most easy and self-satisfied manner. “ My 
life upon George Onslow ! Back him to any 
amount, and against the field any where ! A 
true John Bull ! no humbug, no nonsense about 
him! straightforward and honorable always!” 

“Your position is, then, this, my lord,” said 
Sir Stafford, whose impatience would not per- 
mit him to listen onger ; “ you have quitted 
England, leaving for future settlement a num- 
ber of debts, for which you have not the re- 
motest prospect of liquidation.” 

“Too fast — you go too fast !” said the viscount, 
laughing. 

“Lord Effingdale writes the amount at thirty 
thousand pounds, and adds that, as a defaulter — ” 

“ There’s the whole of it,” broke in Norwood. 

“ You ring the changes about that one confounded 
word, and there is no use in attempting a vindi- 
cation. ‘ Give a dog a bad name,’ as the adage 
says. Now, I took the trouble this very morn- 
ing to go over the whole of this tiresome busi- 
ness with George. I explained to him fully 
and, I hope, to his entire satisfaction, that I was 
simply unfortunate in it — nothing more. A man 
can not always ‘ride the winner ;’ I’m sure I wish 
I could. Of course, I don’t meant to say that 
it’s not a confounded 1 bore’ to come out hem 
and live in such a place as this, and just at the 
opening of the season, too, when town is be- 
ginning to fill; but, ‘needs must,’ we are told, 
‘when a certain gent sits on the coach-box.’ ” 

Sir Stafford stood, during the whole of this 
speech, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed 
upon the floor. He never heard one word of it, 
but was deeply intent upon his own thoughts. 

At length he spoke in a full, collected, and firm 
voice : 

“Lord Norwood — I am, as you have told me, 
perfectly unfitted to pronounce upon transactions 
so very unlike every pursuit in which my life 
has been passed. I am alike ignorant of the 
feelings of those who engage in them, and of 
the rules of honor by which they are guided ; 
but this I know, that the man whom his equals 
decline to associate with at home, is not recog- 
nizable abroad ; and that he who leaves his 
country with shame, can not reside away from 
it with credit.” 

“ This would be a very rude speech, Sir 
Stafford Onslow, even with the palliative preface 
of your ignorance, if our relative ages admitted 
any equality between us. I am the least belli- 


107 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


cose of men — I believe I can say I may afford to 
be so. So long, therefore, as you confine such 
sentiments to yourself, I will never complain of 
them ; but if the time comes that you conceive 
they should be issued for general circulation — ” 

“Well, my lord, what then?” 

“Your son must answer for it — that’s all !” 
said Norwood ; and he drew himself up, and 
fixed his eye steadily on the distant wall of the 
room, with a look and gesture that made the old 
man sick at heart. 

Norwood saw how “his shot told,” and, 
turning hastily round, said : 

“ This interview, I conclude, has lasted quite 
long enough for either of us. If you have any 
further explanations to seek for, let them come 
through a younger man, and in a more regular 
form. Good morning.” 

Sir Stafford bowed, without speaking, as the 
other passed out. 

■ C . - ' v- * 


To have seen them both at that moment, few 
would have guessed aright on which side lay all 
the disgrace, and where the spirit of rectitude 
and honor. 

Sir Stafford, indeed, was most miserable. If 
the viscount’s mock explanations did not satisfy 
a single scruple of his mind, was it not possible 
they might have sufficed with others more con- 
versant with such matters ? Perhaps he is not 
worse than others of his own class. What 
would be his feelings if he were to involve 
George in a quarrel for such a cause ? This 
was a consideration that pressed itself in twenty 
different forms, each of them enough to appall 
him. But the man is a defaulter ; he has fled 
from England with “shame,” was the stubborn 
conviction, which no efforts of his casuistry could 
banish ; and the more he reflected on this, the 
less possible seemed any thing like evasion or 
compromise. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

• ' * , c . 

THE END OF THE FIRST ACT. 


The point discussed in our last chapter, if 
not a momentous one in itself, was destined to 
exercise a very important influence upon the 
fortunes of the Onslow family. The interview 
between Sir Stafford and the viscount scarcely 
occupied five minutes ; after which the baronet 
wrote a note of some length to her ladyship, to 
which she as promptly replied a second, and 
even a third interchange of correspondence fol- 
lowed. The dinner party appointed for that 
day was put off ; a certain ominous kind of 
silence pervaded the house. The few privileged 
visitors were denied admission. Mr. Proctor, 
Sir Stafford’s man, wore a look of more than 
common seriousness. Mademoiselle Celestine’s 
glances revealed a haughty sense of triumph. 
Even the humbler menials appeared to feel that 
something had occurred, and betrayed in their 
anxious faces some resemblance to that vague 
sense of half-curiosity, half-terror, the passengers 
of a steamboat experience when an accident, of 
whose nature they know nothing, has occurred 
to the machinery. 

Their doubts and suspicions assumed more 
shape when the order came that Sir Stafford 
would dine in the library, and her ladyship in 
her own room ; George Onslow alone appearing 
in the diningroom. There was an air ot 
melancholy over every thing ; the silence deep- 
ening as night came on. Servants went noise- 
lessly to and fro, drew the curtains, and closed 


the doors with a half-stealthy gesture, and 
seemed as though fearful of awakening some 
slumbering outbreak of passion. 

We neither have, nor desire to have, secrets 
from our readers. We will therefore proceed 
to Sir Stafford’s dressing-room, where the old 
baronet sat moodily over the fire, his anxious 
features and sorrow-struck expression showing 
the ravages even a few hours of suffering had 
inflicted. His table was littered with papers, 
parchments, and other formidable-looking docu- 
ments. Some letters lay sealed here, others 
were half-written there ; every thing about him 
showed the conflict of doubt and indecision that 
was going on within his mind ; and truly a most 
painful struggle was maintained there. 

For some time back he had seen with dis- 
pleasure the course of extravagance and waste 
of all his household ; he had observed the habits 
of reckless expense with which his establishment 
was maintained ; but possessing a very ample 
fortune, and feeling that probably some change 
would be made with the coming summer, he 
had forborne to advert to it, and endured, with 
what patience he could, a mode of life whose 
very display was distasteful to him. Now, 
however, a more serious cause for anxiety pre- 
sented itself, in the class of intimates admitted 
by Lady Hester to her society. Of the foreign- 
ers he knew comparatively little, but that little 
was not to their advantage. Some, were wealthy 


] 03 


THE DALTONS : OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


voluptuaries, glad to propagate their own habits 
of extravagance among those they suspected of 
fortunes smaller than their own. Others, were 
penniless adventurers, speculating upon every 
thing that might turn to their profit. All, were 
men of pleasure, and of that indolent, lounging, 
purposeless character so peculiarly unpleasing 
to those who have led active lives, and been 
always immersed in the cares and interests of 
business. 

Such men, he rightly judged, were dangerous 
associates to his son, the very worst acquaint- 
ances for Kate, in whom already he was deeply 
interested, but still no actual stain of dishonor — 
no palpable flaw could be detected in their fame, 
till the arrival of Lord Norwood added his name 
to the list. 

To receive a man of whose misconduct in 
England he had acquired every proof, was a 
step beyond his endurance. Here or never 
must he take his stand ; and manfully he did so. 
At first, by calm argument and remonstrance, 
and at last by firm resolution and determination. 
Without adverting to what had passed between 
the viscount and himself, the letter he addressed 
to Lady Hester conveyed his unalterable resolve 
not to know Lord Norwood. Lady Hester’s 
reply was not less peremptory, and scarcely as 
courteous. The correspondence continued with 
increasing warmth on both sides, till Sir Stafford 
palpably hinted at the possible consequences of 
a spirit of discordance and disagreement so ill- 
adapted to conjugal welfare. Her ladyship 
caught up the suggestion with avidity, and pro* 
fessed that, whatever scruples his delicacy might 
feel, to hers there was none in writing the word, 
“ Separation.” 

If the thought had already familiarized itself 
to his mind, the word had not; and strange it 
is, that the written syllables should have a 
power and a meaning that the idea itself could 
never realize. 

To men who have had little publicity in their 
lives, and that little always of an honorable 
nature, there is no thought so poignantly miser- 
able as the dread of a scandalous notoriety. To 
associate their names with any thing that min- 
isters to gossip — to make them tea-table talk — 
still worse, to expose them to sneering and im- 
pertinent criticisms, by revealing the secrets of 
their domesticity, is a torture to which no mere 
physical suffering has any thing to compare. 
Sir Stafford Onslow was a true representative 
of this class of feeling. The sight of his name 
in the list of Directors of some great enterprise, 
as the Patron of a charity, the Governor of a 
hospital, or the Donor to an institution, was 
about as much of newspaper notoriety as he 
could bear without a sense of shrinking delicacy; 
but to become the mark for public discussion in 
the relations of his private life — to have himself 
and his family brought up to the bar of that 
terrible ordeal, where bad tongues are the elo- 
quent, and evil speakers are the witty, was a 
speculation too terrible to think over ; and this 
was exactly what Lady Hester was suggesting ! 


Is it not very strange that Woman, with whose 
nature we inseparably and truly associate all 
those virtues that take their origin in refinement 
and modesty, should sometimes be able to brave 
a degree of publicity, to which, & man, the very 
hardiest and least shame-faced, would succumb, 
crestfallen and abashed ; that her timid delicacy, 
her shrinking bashfulness, can be so hardened 
by the world, that she can face a notoriety where 
every look is an indictment, and every whisper 
a condemnation ! i 

Now, if Lady Hester was yet remote from 
this, she had still journeyed one stage of the 
road. She had abundant examples around her 
of those best ■> received and best looked on in 
society, whose chief claim to the world’s esteem 
seemed to be the contempt with which they treated 
all its ordinances. There was a dash of heroism 
in their effrontery that pleased her ; they ap- 
peared more gay, more buoyant, more elastic 
in spirits than other people ; their increased 
liberty seemed to impart enlarged and more 
generous views, and they were always “good- 
natured,” since, living in the very glassiest of 
houses, they never “shied” a pebble. 

While, then, Sir Stafford sat overwhelmed 
with shame and sorrow at the bare thought of 
the public discussion that awaited him, Lady 
Hester was speculating upon condolences hero, 
approbation there, panegyrics upon her high 
spirit, and congratulations upon her freedom. 
The little half-shadowy allusions her friends 
would throw out from time to time upon tho 
strange unsuitableness of her marriage with a 
man so much her senior, would soon be con- 
verted into comments of unrestricted license. 
Besides — and perhaps the greatest charm of all 
was — she would then have a grievance — not 
the worn-out grievance of some imaginary ail- 
ment, that nobody believes in but the “doctor” 
— not the mock agonies of a heart complaint, 
that saves the sufferer from eating bad dinners 
in vulgar company, but always allows them a 
respite for a dejeuner at the Court, or a supper 
after the Opera with a few chosen “ convives’ 
— but a real substantial grievance, over which 
men might be eloquent and ladies pathetic. 
Such were the different feelings with which 
two persons contemplated the same event. Sir 
Stafford’s thoughts turned instantly toward En- 
gland. What would be said there by all those 
friends who had endeavored to dissuade him from 
this ill-suited union ? Their sorrowful compas- 
sion was even less endurable than the malice of 
others ; and Grounsell, too — what would his old 
friend think of a catastrophe so sudden ? In his 
heart, Sir Stafford was glad that the doctor was 
absent, much as he needed his counsel and ad- 
vice ; he still more dreaded the terror of his 
triumphant eye, or the accomplishment of his 
oft-repeated prediction. 

From George he met no support whatever. 
He either believed, or thought that he believed, 
Norwood’s garbled explanation. Intercourse 
with a certain set of “fast men” had shown 
him that a man might do a “screwy” thing 


109 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


now and then, and yet not be cut by his ac- 
quaintance; and the young Guardsman deemed 
his lather’s rigid notions nothing but prejudices 
— very excellent and commendable ones, no 
doubt, but as inapplicable to our present civil- 
ization as would be a coat of mail, or a back- 
piece of chain-armor. George Onslow, there- 
fore, halted between the two opinions. Adhering 
to his father’s side from feelings of affection and 
respect, he was drawn to Lady Hester’s by his 
convictions ; not, indeed, aware how formidable 
the difference had already become between them, 
and that, before that very night closed in, they 
had mutually agreed upon a separation, which, 
while occupying the same house, was essentially 
to exclude all intercourse. 

One consideration gave Sir Stafford much 
painful thought. What was to become of Kate 
Dalton in this new turn of affairs ? The position 
of a young girl on a visit with a family living in 
apparent unity and happiness was very wide 
apart from her situation as the companion of a 
woman separated, even thus much, from her 
husband. It would be equally unfair to her 
own family, as unjust to the girl hersejf, to 
detain her then, in such a conjuncture. And, 
yet, what was to be done ? Apart from all the 
unpleasantness of proposing an abrupt return to 
her home, came the thought of the avowal that 
;.rust accompany the suggestion — the very con- 
fession he so dreaded to make. Of course, the 
gossiping of servants would soon circulate the 
rumor. But then they might not spread it be- 
yond the Alps, nor make it the current talk of 
a German watering-place. Thus were his selfish 
feelings at war with higher and purer thoughts. 
But the struggle was not a long one. Ho sat 
down, and wi'ote to Lady Hester. Naturally 
assuming that all the reasons which had such 
force for himself would weigh equally with her, 
he dwelt less upon the arguments for Kate’s de- 
parture than upon the mode in which it might 
be proposed and carried out. He adverted with 
feeling to the sacrifice the loss would inflict 
upon Lady Hester, but professed his conviction 
in the belief that all merely selfish considerations 
would give way before higher and more im- 
portant duties. 

“As it is,” said he, “I fear much that we 
have done any thing but conduce to this dear 
girl’s welfare and happiness. We have shown 
her glimpses of a life whose emptiness she can 
not appreciate, but by whose glitter she is already 
attracted. We have exposed her to all the se- 
ductions of flattery, pampering a vanity which is 
perhaps her one only failing. We have doubt- 
less suggested to her imagination dreams of a 
future never to be realized, and we must now 
consign her to a home where all the affections 
of fond relatives will be unequal to the task of 
blinding her to its poverty and its obscurity. 
And yet even this is better than to detain her 
here. 

“It shall be my care to see in what w r ay 
I can — I was about to write recompense, nor 
would the word be unsuitable — recompense 


Mr. Dalton for the injury wq have done him 
as regards his child ; and if you have any sug- 
gestion to make me on this head, I will gladly 
accept it.” 

The note concluded with some hints as to the 
manner of making the communication to Kate, 
the whole awkwardness of which Sir Stafford, 
it need were, would take upon himself. 

The whole temper of the letter was feeling 
and tender. Without even in the most remote 
way adverting to what had occurred between 
Lady Hester and himself, he spoke of their 
separation simply in its relation to Kate Dalton, 
for whom they were both bound to think and 
act with caution. As if concentrating every 
thought upon Acr, he did not suffer any other 
consideration to interfere. Kate, and Kate only, 
was all its theme. 

Lady Hester, however, read the lines in a very 
different spirit. She had just recovered from a 
mesmeric trance, into which, to calm her nervous 
exaltation, her physician, Dr. Buccellini, had 
thrown her. She had been lving in a state of 
half-hysterical apathy for some hours, all volition 
— almost all vitality — suspended, under the in- 
fluence of an exaggerated credulity, when the 
letter was laid upon her table. 

“ What is that your maid has just left out of 
her hand ?” asked the doctor, in a tone of semi- 
imperiousness. 

“A letter — a sealed letter,” replied she, 
mystically waving her hand before her hall- 
closed eyes. 

The doctor gave a look of triumph at the by- 
standers, and went on. 

“ Has the letter come from a distant country, 
or from a correspondent near at hand?” 

“ Near !” said she, with a shudder. 

“ Where is the writer at this moment ?” 
asked he. 

“ In the house,” said she, with another and 
more violent shuddering* 

“ I now take the letter in my hand,” said the 
doctor, “and what am I looking at?” 

“ A seal with two griffins supporting a spur.” 

The doctor showed the letter on every side, 
with a proud and commanding gesture. 

“ There is a name written in the corner of the 
letter, beneath the address. Do you know that 
name ?” 

A heavy thick sob was all the reply. 

“There — there — be calm, be still,” said he, 
majestically motioning with both hands toward 
her ; and she immediately became composed and 
tranquil. 

“ Are the contents of this letter such as will 
give you pleasure?” 

A shake of the head was the answer. 

“Are they painful?” 

“Very painful,” said she, pressing her hand 
to her temples. 

“Will these tidings be productive of grand 
consequences ?” 

“ Yes, yes !” cried she, eagerly. 

“ What will you do, when you read them?” 

“Act!” ejaculated she, solemnly. 


no 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ In compliance with the spirit, or in rejec- 
tion ?” 

v “ Rejection P’ 

“ Sleep on — sleep on,” said the doctor, with 
a wave of his hand ; and, as he spoke, her head 
drooped, her arm fell listlessly down, and her 
long and heavy breathing denoted deep slumber. 
“ There are people, Miss Dalton,” said he to 
Kate, “who affect to see nothing in mesmer- 
ism but deception and trick, whose philosophy 
teaches them to discredit all that they can not 
comprehend. I trust you may never be of this 
number.” 

“ It is very wonderful, very strange,” said she, 
thoughtfully. 

“ Like all the secrets of nature, its phenomena 
are above belief ; yet, to those who study them 
with patience and industry, how compatible do 
they seem with the whole order and spirit of 
creation. The great system of vitality being 
a grand scheme of actionary and reactionary 
influences, the centrifugal being in reality the 
centripetal, and those impulses we vainly fancy 
to be our own instincts, being the impressions 
of external forces. Do you comprehend me?” 

“ Not perfectly ; in part, perhaps,” said she, 
diffidently. 

“ Even that is something,” replied he, with 
a bland smile. “ One whose future fortunes 
will place her in a station to exert influence, is 
an enviable convert to have brought to truth.” 

“ I !” said she, blushing with shame and sur- 
prise together ; “ surely, you mistake, sir ; I am 
neither born to rank, nor like to attain it.” 

“ Both one and the other, young lady,” said 
he, solemnly ; “ high as your position will one 
day be, it will not be above the claims of your 
descent. It is not on fallible evidence that I 
read the future.” 

“ And you can really predict my fortune in 
life?” asked she, eagerly. 

“ More certainly than you would credit it, 
when told !” said he, deliberately. 

“ How I should like to hear it — how I should 
like to know — ” She stopped, and a deep blush 
covered her face. 

“ And why should you not know that your 
dreams will be realized,” said he, hastily, as if 
speaking from some irresistible impulse. “ What 
more natural than to desire a glance, fleeting 
though it be, into that black vista, where the 
bright lightning of prophecy throws its moment- 
ary splendor.” 

“ And how know you that I have had dreams ?” 
said she, innocently. 

“ I know of them but by their accomplishment. 
I see you not in the present or the past, but in 
the future. There your image is revealed to me, 
and surrounded by a splendor I can not describe. 
It is gorgeous, and barbaric in magnificence ; 
there is something feudal in the state by which 
you are encompassed that almost speaks of an- 
other age.” 

“ This is mere dreamland, indeed.” said she, 
laughing. 

“Nay, not so ; nor is it all bright and glorious, 


as you think. There are shadows of many a 
dark tint moving along the sunlit surface.” 

“But how know you all this?” asked she, 
half-incredulously. 

“As you slept last evening in a mesmeric 
slumber on that sofa : but I will hear no furthei 
questioning. Look to our patient here, and if 
that letter agitate her overmuch, let me be sent 
for.” And, with these words delivered oracu- 
larly, the doctor left the room; while Kate seated 
herself beside the sofa where Lady Hester slept. 

It was late in the night when Lady Hester 
awoke, and soon remembering that a letter had 
arrived, broke the seal and read it. If the pro- 
posal of Sir Stafford was in every way unac- 
ceptable. there was something which compen- 
sated for all, in the excitement of spirits an act 
of opposition was sure to produce ; nor was it 
without a sense of triumph that she read lines 
penned in evident sorrow and depression of 
spirits. In fact, she made the not uncommon 
error of mistaking sorrow for repentance, and 
thought she perceived in her husband’s tone a 
desire to retrace his steps. It is difficult to say 
whether such an amende would have given her 
pleasure : certainly she would not have ac 
cepted it without subjecting him to a term of 
probation of more or less length. In any case, 
as regarded Kate, she was decided at one© 
upon a positive refusal ; and as, with her , a 
resolve and a mode of action were usually the 
work of the same moment, she motioned to 
Kate to sit down beside her on the sofa; and, 
passing her arm around her, drew her fondly 
toward her. 

“ Kate, dearest,” said she, “ I’m sure noth- 
ing would induce you to leave me — I mean, to 
desert and forsake me !” 

Kate pressed the hand she held in her own 
to her lips with fervor, but could not speak for 
emotion. ‘ ' ' \ 

“I say this,” said Lady Hester, rapidly, 
“ because the moment has come to test your 
fidelity. Sir Stafford and I — it is needless to 
state how and by what means — have, at last, 
discovered, what I fancy the whole world has 
seen for many a day, that we were totally un- 
suited to each' other — in taste, age, habit, feel- 
ing, mode of life, and thought ; that we have 
nothing in common — neither liking, nor detest- 
ing the same things, but actually at variance up- 
on every possible subject and person. Of course, 
all attempt to cover such discrepancies must be 
a failure. We might trump up a hollow truce, 
child, but it never could be an alliance ; and so 
we have thought — I’m sure it is well that we 
have hit upon even one topic for agreement — 
we have thought that the best, indeed, the only 
thing we could do, was — to separate !” 

An exclamation, almost like an accent of 
pain, escaped Kate at these words. 

“ Yes, dearest,” resumed Lady Hester ; “ it 
was his own proposal, made in the very coldest 
imaginable fashion ; for men have constantly 
this habit, and always take the tone of dignity 
when they are about to do an injustice. & All 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. Ill 


this, however, I was prepared for, and could 
sutler without complaint; but he desires to rob 
me ot you, my dear child — to deprive me of the 
only friend, the only confidant I have in the 
world. I don't wonder that you grow pale, 
and look shocked at such cruelty, concealed as 
it is under the mask of cai'e for your interests, 
and regard for your welfare ; and this to me, 
dearest — to me, who feel to you as to a sister — 
a dear, dear sister !” Here Lady Hester drew 
Kate toward her, and kissed her twice affec- 
tionately. “ There’s his letter, my sw T eet child; 
you can read it ; or, better, indeed, that you 
should not, if you would preserve any memory 
of your good opinion of him !” 

“ And he that was ever so kind, so thought- 
ful, and so generous!” cried Kate. 

“ You know nothing of these creatures, my 
dear,” broke in Lady Hester. “ All those 
plausibilities that they play off in the world, are 
little emanations of their own own selfish na- 
tures ; they are eternally craving admiration 
from us women, and that is the true reason of 
their mock kindness and mock generosity ! I’m 
sure,” added she, sighing, “ my experience has 
cost me pretty deafly ! What a life of trial and 
privation has mine been !”' 

Lady Hester sighed heavily, as her jeweled 
fingers pressed to her eyes a handkerchief 
worth a hundred guineas, and really believed 
herself a case for world-wide sympathy. She 
actually did shed a tear or tw r o over her sor- 
rows ; for it is wonderful on w T hat slight pre- 
tension we can compassionate ourselves? She 
thought over all the story of her life, and wept ! 
She remembered how she had been obliged to 
refuse the husband of her choice — she forgot 
to be grateful for having escaped a heartless 
spendthrift — she remembered her acceptance of 
one inferior to her in rank, and many years her 
senior, but forgot his wealth, his generosity, his 
kindliness of nature, and his high character. 
She thought of herself as she was at eighteen 
— the flattered beauty, daughter of a peer, 
courted, sought after, and admired ; but she 
totally forgot what she was at thirty — with 
faded attractions, unthought of, and, worse still, 
unmarried. Of the credit side of her account 
with Fortune, she omitted not an item; the 
dobits she slurred over as unworthy of mention. 
That she should be able to deceive herself is 
nothing very new nor strange ; but that she 
should succeed in deceiving another, is, indeed, 
singular ; and such was the case. Kate list- 
ened to her, and believed every thing ; and 
when her reason failed to convince, her natural 
softness of disposition served to satisfy her that 
a more patient, long-suffering, unrepining being 
never existed than Lady Hester Onslow. 

“ And now,” said she, after a long peroration 
of woes, “ can you leave me here, alone and 
friendless? will you desert me ?” 

u Oh, never, never!” cried Kate, kissing her 
hand, and pressing her to her heart. “ I would 
willingly lay down my life to avert this sad 
misfortune ; but, if that can not be, I will share 


your lot with the devotion of my whole 
heart.” 

Lady Hester could scarcely avoid smiling at 
the poor girl's simplicity, who really fancied 
that separation included a life of seclusion and 
sorrow, with restricted means, and an obscure 
position ; and it was with a kind of subdued 
drollery she assured Kate, that even in her 
altered fortunes, a great number of little pleas- 
ures and comforts would remain for them. In 
fact, by degrees, the truth came slowly out, 
that the great change implied little else than 
unrestrained liberty of action, freedom to go 
any where, know any one, and be questioned by 
nobody. The equivocal character of the posi- 
tion adding a piquancy to the society, inex- 
pressibly charming to all those who, like the 
Duchesse d’Abrantes, think it only necessary 
for a thing to be “ wrong,” to make it perfectly 
delightful. 

Having made a convert of Kate, Lady Hes- 
ter briefly replied to Sir Stafford, that his prop- 
osition was alike repugnant to Miss Dalton as 
to herself — that she regretted the want of con- 
sideration on his part, which could have led him 
to desire that she should be friendless at a time 
when the presence of a companion was more 
than ever needed. This done, she kissed Kate 
three or four times affectionately, and retired to 
her room, well satisfied with what the day had 
brought forth, and only wishing for the morrow, 
which should open her new path in life. 

It often happens in life, that we are never 
sufficiently struck with the force of our own 
opinions or their consequences, till, from some 
accident or other, we come to record them. 
Then it is that the Sentiments we have ex- 
pressed, and the lines of action adopted, sud- 
denly come forth in all their unvarnished truth. 
Like the images which the painter, for the first 
time, commits to canvas, they stand out to 
challenge a criticism, which, so long as they 
remained in mere imagination, they had es- 
caped. 

This was precisely Kate Dalton’s case now. 
Her natural warm-heartedness, and her fervent 
sense of gratitude, had led her to adopt Lady 
Hester’s cause as her own ; generous impulses 
carrying reason all before them, attached her to 
what she fancied to be the weaker side. “ The 
divinity that doth hedge” “beauty” made her 
believe that so much loveliness could do no 
wrong ; nor was it till she came to write of 
the event to her sister, that even a doubt crossed 
her mind on the subject. The difficulty of ex- 
plaining a circumstance of which she knew but 
little, was enhanced by her knowledge of Ellen’s 
rigid and unbending sense of right. “ Poor 
dear Nelly,” said she, “with her innocence of 
mind, will understand nothing of all this, or she 
will condemn Lady Hester at once. Submis- 
sion to her husband would, in her opinion, have 
been the first of duties. She can not appreciate 
motives which actuate society in a rank differ- 
ent from her own. In her ignorance of the 
world, too, she might deem my remaining here 


112 THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


unadvisable ; she might counsel my return to 
home ; and thus I should be deserting, forsaking, 
the dear friend who has confided all her sorrows 
to my heart, and reposes all her trust in my 
fidelity. This would break Lady Hester’s 
heart, and my own, together ; and yet nothing 
is more likely than such a course.” Better, a 
thousand times, not expose her friend’s cause 
to such a casualty. A little time, and a little 
patience, may place matters in a position more 
intelligible, and less objectionable ; and, after 
all, the question is purely a family secret, the 
divulgence of which, even to a sister, is, per- 
haps, not warrantable. 

Such were among the plausibilities with 
which she glanced over her conduct; without, 
however, satisfying herself that she was in the 
right. She had only began the descent of lax 
morality, and her head was addled by the new 
sensation. Happy are they who, even from 
weak nerves, relinquish the career ! 

Kate’s letter home, then, was full of gay rev- 
elations. Galleries, churches, gardens ; objects 
of art or historic interest ; new pictures of man- 
ners; sketches of society abounded. There 


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were descriptions of fetes, too, and brilliant 
assemblies, with great names of guests, and 
gorgeous displays of splendor. Well and sweet- 
ly were they written; a quick observation, and 
a keen insight into character in every line. 
The subtle analysis of people, and their preten- 
sions, which comes of mixture with the world, 
was pre-eminent in all she said ; while a cer- 
tain sharp wit pointed many of the remarks, 
and sparkled in many a brilliant passage. 

It was altogether a lively and a pleasant 
letter. A stranger, reading it, would have 
pronounced the writer clever and witty ; a 
friend, would have regretted the want of per- 
sonal details, the hundred little traits of ego- 
tism, that speak confidence and trust. But to a 
sister ! and such a sister as Nelly ! it was, in- 
deed, barren ! No outpouring of warm affec- 
tion ; no fond memory of home ; no reference 
to that little fireside, whence her own image 
had never departed, and where her presence 
was each night invoked. 

Oh ! Kate, has Hanserl’s dark prophecy 
thrown its shadow already to your feet ? Can a 
young heart be so easily corrupted, and so soon ? 




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J V 



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* A ' ' v, ’ • * , # 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

A SMALL DINNER AT THE VILLINO ZOE. 


Among the penalties great folk pay for their 
ascendency, there is one most remarkable, and 
that is, the intense interest taken in all their 
affairs by hundreds of worthy people who are 
not of their acquaintance. This feeling, which 
transcends every other known description of 
sympathy, flourishes in small communities. In 
the capital of which we are now speaking, it 
was at its very highest pitch of development. 
The Onslows furnished all the table-talk of the 
city ; but in no circle were their merits so fre- 
quently and ably discussed as in that little par- 
liament of gossip which held its meetings at the 
“ Villino Zoe.” 

Mrs. Ricketts, who was no common diploma- 
tist, had done her utmost to establish relations 
of amity with her great neighbor. She had 
expended all the arts of courtesy, and all the 
devices of politeness, to effect this “ entente 
cordiale but all in vain. Her advances had 
been met with coldness, and “something more;” 
her perfumed little notes, written in a style of 
euphuism all her own, had been left unanswer- 
ed ; her presents of fruit and flowers unacknowl- 
edged — it is but fair to add, that they never 
proceeded further than the porter’s lodge — even 
her visiting cards were only replied to by the 
stiff courtesy of cards, left by Lady Hester’s 
“ Chasseur so that, in fact, failure had fallen 
on all her endeavors, and she had not even 
attained to the barren honor of a recognition as 
they passed in the promenade. 

This was a very serious discomfiture, and 
might, when it got abroad, have sorely dam- 
aged the Ricketts’ ascendency in that large 
circle, who were accustomed to regard her 
as the glass of fashion. Heaven knew what 
amount of insubordination might spring out of 
it ! what rebellious notions might gain currency 
and credit ! It was but the winter before when 
a duchess, who passed through, on her way to 
Rome, asked, “Who Mrs. Ricketts was?” and 
the shock was felt during the whole season 
after. The Vandyk, for whose authenticity 
Martha swore, was actually called in question. 
The “ Sevres” cup she had herself painted, was 
the subject of a heresy as astounding. We live 
in an age of movement and convulsion — no 
man’s landmarks are sale now, and Mrs. Rick- 
etts knew this. 

The Onslows, it was clear, would not know 
her; it only remained, then, to show why she I 


would not know them. It was a rare thing to 
find a family settling down at Florence, against 
whom a “True Bill” might not easily be found 
of previous misconduct. Few left England 
without a reason, that might readily become an 
allegation. Bankruptcy or divorce were the 
light offenses ; the higher ones we must not 
speak of. Now the Onslows, as it happened, 
were not in this category. Sir Stafford’s char- 
acter was unimpeachable — her ladyship’s had 
nothing more grave against it than the ordinary 
levities of her station. George “had gone the 
pace,” it was true, but nothing disreputable 
attached to him. There was no use, therefore, 
in “trying back” for a charge* and Mrs. Rick- 
etts perceived that they must be arraigned on 
the very vaguest of evidence. Many a head 
has fallen beneath the guillotine for a suspicion, 
and many a heart been broken on a surmise! 

A little dinner at the Villino opened the plan 
of proceedings. It was a small “ auto-da-fe” 
of character, at which the Onslows were to be 
the victims, while the grand inquisitors were 
worthily represented by the Polish count, Hag- 
gerstone, Purvis, and a certain Mr. Foglass, 
then passing through Florence on his way to 
England. This gentleman, who was the re- 
puted son of a supposed son of George the- 
Fourth, was received as “very good royalty’*' 
in certain circles abroad, and, by virtue of a 
wig, a portly chest, and a most imposing pom- 
posity of manner, taken to be exceedingly like 
his grandfather — just on the same principle as 
red currant jelly makes middling mutton resem- 
ble venison. 

To get rid of his importunity, a minister had 
made him consul in some remote village of the 
East, but finding that there were neither fees 
nor perquisites, Foglass had left his post to be- 
siege the doors of Downing-street once more,, 
and if rejected as a suppliant, to become an 
admirable grievance for a Radical member, and 
a “ very cruel case of oppression” for the morn- 
ing papers. 

Foglass was essentially a “humbug;” but, 
unlike most, if not all other humbugs, without 
the smallest ingredient of any kind of ability. 
When men are said to live by their wits, their 
capital is, generally speaking, a very sufficient 
one ; and that interesting class of persons known 
as adventurers, numbers many clever talkers, 
shrewd observers, subtle tacticians, and admira- 


) 


114 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ble billiard players ; with a steady hand on a 
pistol, but ready to “ pocket” either an “insult” 
or a “ball,” jf the occasion require it. None 
of these gifts pertained to Foglass. He had not 
one of the qualities which either succeed in the 
world or in society, and yet, strange to say, this 
intolerable bore had a kind of popularity ; that 
is to say, people gave him a vacant place at 
their dinners, and remembered him at pic-nics. 

His whole strength lay in his wig, and a cer- 
tain slow, measured intonation, which he found 
often attracted attention to what he said, and 
gave his tiresome anecdotes of John Kemble, 
Munden, and Mathews, the semblance of a 
point they never possessed. Latterly, however, 
be had grown deaf, and, like most who suffer 
under that infirmity, taken to speaking in a 
whisper so low as to be inaudible — a piece of 
politeness for which even our readeb will be 
grateful, as it will spare him the misery of his 
twaddle. . *• 

Haggerstone and he were intimates — were 
it not a profanation of the word, we should say 
friends. They were, however, always togeth- 
er ; and Haggerstone took pains to speak of his 
companion as a “ monstrous clever fellow, who 
required to be known to be appreciated.” Jekyl 
probably discovered the true secret of the alli- 
ance, in the fact that they always talked to each 
other about the nobility, and never gave them 
their titles; an illusory familiarity with dukes and 
earls that appeared to render them supremely 
happy. Richmond, Beaufort, Cleveland, and 
Stanley, were in their mouths as “ household 
words.” 

After all, it was a harmless sort of pastime ; 
and if these “ Imaginary Conversations” gave 
them pleasure, why need we grumble ? 

We have scruples about asking our reader 
even to a description of the Ricketts’ dinner. 
It was a true Barmecide feast. There was a 
very showy bouquet of flowers ; there was a 
lavish display of what seemed silver ; there was 
a good deal of queer china and impracticable 
glass.; in short, much to look at, and very little 
to eat. Of this fact the Pole’s appreciation was 
like an instinct, and as the entrees were handed 
round, all who came after him became soon 
aware of it. Neither the wine nor the dessert 
were temptations to a long sitting, and the 
party soon found themselves in the drawing- 
room. 

“ Son excellence is going to England ?” said 
the Pole, addressing Foglass, who had been 
announced as an embassador ; “if you do see 
de Count Ojeffskoy, tell him I am living here, 
as well as a poor exile can, who have lost 
palaces, and horses, and diamonds, and all de 
rest.” 

“ Ah ! the poor dear count !” sighed Mrs. 
Ricketts ; while Martha prolonged the echo. 

“You carry on the war tolerably well, not- 
withstanding,” said Haggerstone, who knew 
something of the other’s resources in piquet and 
« carte. 

“ Carry on de war !” rejoined he, indignant- 


ly, “wid my fader, who work in de mines! and 
my beautiful sisters, who walk naked about de 
streets of Crakow !” 

“ What kind of climate have they in Crak — * 
Crak — Crak — ” A fit of coughing finished a 
question which nobody thought of answering ; 
and Purvis sat down, abashed, in a corner. 

“ Arthur, my love,” said Mrs. Ricketts — she 
was great at-a diversion, whenever such a tac- 
tic was Wanted — “ do you hear what Colonel 
Haggerstone has been saying?” 

“No, dearest,” muttered the old general, as 
he worked away with rule and compass. 

“He tells me,” said the lady, still louder, 
“that the Onslows have separated. Not an 
open, formal separation, but that they occupy 
distinct apartments, and hold no intercourse 
whatever.” 

“ Sir Stafford lives on the rez de chaussce ,” 
said Haggerstone, who, having already told the 
story seven times the same morning, was quite 
perfect in the recital — “ Sir Stafford lives on the 
rez de chaussee , with a small door into the gar- 
den. My lady retains the entire first floor and 
the grand conservatory. George has a small 
gar^on apartment off the terrace.” 

“ How very distressing !” sighed Mrs. Rick- 
etts, whose woe-worn looks seemed to imply 
that she had never heard of a similar incident 
before ; “ and how unlike us, Arthur,” added 
she, with a smile of beaming affection. “ He 
has ever bedn what you see him, since the day 
he stole my young, unsuspecting heart.” 

The colonel looked over at the object thus 
designated, and, by the grin of malice on his 
features, appeared to infer that the compliment 
was but a sorry one, after all. 

“ ‘ John Anderson my Jo, John,’ ” muttered 
he, half aloud, i.' 

“‘We’ve climbed the hill toge — ge — ge — 
ther,’” chimed in Purvis, with a cackle. 

“Gather what, sir? Blackberries, was it?” 
cried Haggerstone. 

“ Don’t quote that low-lived creature,” said 
Mrs. Ricketts, “a poet only conversant with 
peasants and their habits. Let us talk of our 
own order. What of these poor Onslows ?” 

“ Sir Stafford dines at two, madam. A cut- 
let, a vegetable, and a cherry tart ; two glasses 
of Gordon’s sherry, and a cup of coffee.” 

“ Without milk. I had it from Proctor,” 
broke in Purvis, who was bursting with jealousy 
at the accuracy of the other’s narrative. 

“You mean without sugar, sir,” snapped 
Haggerstone. “Nobody does take milk-coffee 
after dinner.” 

“I always do,” rejoined Purvis, “when I 
can’t get mara — mara — mara — ” 

“ I hope you can get maraschino down easier 
than you pronounce it, sir.” 

“Be quiet Scroope,” said his sister; “you 
always interrupt.” 

“ He do make de devil of misverstandness 
wit his what-ye-call-’um,” added the Pole, con- 
temptuously. 

And poor Purvis, rebuked on every side, was 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


obliged to fall back beside Martha and her em- 
broidery. 

“ My lady ,' 5 resumed Haggerstone, “is served 
at eleven o’clock. The moment Granzini’s solo 
is over in the Ballet, an express is sent off to 
order dinner. The table is far more costty than 
Midchikoff’s.” 

“ I do believe well,” said the count, who 
always, for nationality’s sake, deemed it proper 
to abuse the Russian. “ De MidchikofF cook 
tell me, he have but ten paoli — how you say — 
par tete — by the tete — for his dinner ; dat, to in- 
clude every ting, from the caviar to the sheeze.” 

“ That was not the style at the Pavilion 
formerly,” roared out Haggerstone, repeating 
the remark in Foglass’s ear. 

And the ex-consul smiled blandly toward Mrs. 
Ricketts, and said, “ He’d take any thing to 
England for her with pleasure.” 

“ He’s w r orse than ever,” remarked Hagger- 
stone, irritably. “ When people have a natural 
infirmity, they ought to confine themselves to 
their own room.” 

“Particularly when it is one of the tern — 
tern — temper,” said Purvis, almost choked with 
passion. 

“ Better a hasty temper than an impracticable 
tongue, sir,” said Haggerstone. 

“ Be quiet, Scroope,” added Mrs. Ricketts ; 
and he was still. Then, turning to the colonel, 
she went on, “ How thankful we ought to be that 
we never knew these people. They brought 
letters to us — some, indeed, from dear and valued 
friends. That sweet Diana Comerton, who mar- 
ried the Duke of Ellswater, wrote a most press- 
ing entreaty that I should call upon them.” 

“ She didn’t marry the duke ; she married his 
chap — chaplain,” chimed in Purvis. 

“ Will you be quiet. Scroope?” remarked the 
lady. 

“ I ought to know T ,” rejoined he, grown cour- 
ageous in the goodness of his cause. “ He was 
Bob Nutty. Bitter Bob, we always called him 
at school. He had a kind of a poly — poly — 
poly—” 

“ A polyanthus,” suggested Haggerstone. 

“ No. It was a poly — polypus — a polypus, 
that made him snuffle in his speech.” 

“ Ach, Gott !” sighed the Pole ; but whether 
in sorrow for poor “ Bob,” or in utter weariness 
at his historian, was hard to say. 

“Lady Foxington, too,” said Mrs. Ricketts, 
“ made a serious request that we should be in- 
timate with her friend Lady Hester. She was 
candid enough to say that her ladyship would not 
suit me. ‘She has no soul, Zoe,’ wrote she, ‘so 
I needn’t say more.’ ” 

“ Dat is ver bad,” said the Pole, gravely. 

“ Still I should have made her acquaintance, 
for the sake of that young creature, Miss Dalton, 
I think they call her, and whom I rather suspect 
to be a distant cousin of ours.” 

“ Yes ; there were Dawkinses at Exeter — a 
very respectable solicitor, one was, Joe Dawkins,” 
came in Purvis ; “he used to say we were co — 
co— co — connections.” 


115 

“ This family, sir, is called Dalton, and not 
even a stutter can make that Dawkins.” 

“ Couldn’t your friend, Mr. Foglass, find out 
something about these Daltons for us, as he goes 
through Germany ?” asked Mrs. Ricketts of the 
colonel. 

“ No one could execute such a commission 
better, madam, only you must give him his in- 
structions in writing. Foglass,” added he. at 
the top of his voice, “ let me have your note- 
book for a moment.” 

“ With pleasure,” said he, presenting his 
snuff-box. 

“ No ; your memorandum-book !” screamed 
the other, louder. 

“ It’s gone down,” whispered the deaf man. 
“I lost the key on Tuesday last.” 

“ Not your watch, man. I want to -write a 
line in your note-book;” and he made a panto- 
mimic of writing. 

“ Yes, certainly ; if Mrs. R. will permit, I’ll 
write to her with pleasure.” 

“ Confound him,” muttered Haggerstone; and, 
taking up a visiting card, he wrote on the back 
of it, “could you trace the Daltons, as you go 
back by Baden ?” 

The deaf man at once brightened up ; a look 
of shrewd intelligence lighted up his fishy eyes 
as he said : 

“Yes, of course; say what do you want?” 

“ Antecedents — family — fortune,” wrote Hag- 
gerstone. 

“If dey have de tin,” chimed in the Pole. 

“ If they be moral and of irreproachable rep- 
putation,” said Mrs. Ricketts. 

“Are they related to the other Dawkinses?” 
asked Purvis. “ Let him ask if their mother 
was not godfather to — no, I mean grandfather 
— to the Reverend Jere — Jere — Jere — ” 

“ Be quiet, Scroope ! will you be quiet ?” 

“ There, you have it all, now,” said Hagger- 
stone, as he finished writing. “ Their ‘ family, 
fortune, flaw-s, and frailties’ — ‘w T hat they did, 
and where they did it’ — observing accuracy as 
to Christian names, and as many dates as pos- 
sible.” 

“ I’ll do it,” said Foglass, as he read over the 
“ instruction.” 

“We want it soon, too,” said Mrs. Ricketts. 
“ Tell him we shall need the information at 
once.” 

“ This with speed,” wrote Haggerstone at the 
foot of the memorandum. 

Foglass bowed a deep assent. 

“ How like his grandfather,” said Mrs. Rick- 
etts, in ecstasy. 

“ I never knew he had one,” whispered Hag- 
gerstone to the Pole. “His father was a coach- 
maker in Long Acre.” 

“Is he not thought very like them?” asked 
Mrs. Ricketts, with a sidelong glance of admi- 
ration at the auburn peruke. 

“ I’ve heard that the wig is authentic, mad- 
dam.” 

“ He has so much of that regal urbanity in his 
manner.” 


' ‘ I / > 

THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


116 

“ If he is not the first gentleman of England,” 
muttered Haggerstone to himself, “ he is the first 
one in his own family at least.” 

“ By-the-way,” said Mrs. Ricketts, hastily, 
“ let him inquire into that affair of Lord Nor- 
wood.” V 

“No necessity, madam; the affair is in BelVs 
Life , with the significant question, ‘ Where is 
he ?’ But he can learn the particulars at all 
events.” And he made a note in the book. 

“ How dreadful all this, and how sad to think 
Florence should be the resort of such people.” 

“If it were not for raparees and refugees, 
madam, house-rent would be very inexpensive,” 
said the colonel, in a subdued voice ; while, 
turning to the Pole, he added, “ and if respect- 
ability is to be always a caricature, I’d as soon 
have its opposite. I suppose you do not admit 
the viscount, madam?” 

“ He has not ventured to present himself,” 
said Mrs. Ricketts, proudly. “I hope that there 
is at least one sanctuary where virtue can live 
unmolested.” And, as she spoke, she looked 
over at Martha, who was working away patient- 
ly, but whether happy in the exclusive Tariff, 
aforesaid, or somewhat tired of ‘-Protection,” 
we are unable to say. 

“What has he do?” asked the count. 

“ He has done the ‘ Ring’ all round, I believe,” 
said Haggerstone, chuckling at a joke which he 
alone could appreciate. 

“ Dey do talk of play in England !” said the 
Pole, contemptuously ; “dey never do play high, 
with dere leetle — how you call ’em — bets, of 
tree, four guinea ! at ecarte. But in Polen we 
have two, tree, five thousand crowns on each 
card. Dere, crack ! you lose a fortune, or I do 
win one ! One evening at Garowidsky’s I do 
lose one estate of seventeen million florins, but 
I no care noting for all that ! I was ver rich, 
wit my palaces and de mayorat — how you call 
dat ?” 

Before this question could be answered, the 
servant threw open the double door of the salon 
and announced, “Milordo Norwood!” A shell 
might have burst in the apartment and not, 
created much more confusion. Mrs. Ricketts 
gave a look at Martha, as though to assure 
herself that she was in safety. Poor Martha’s 
own fingers trembled as she bent over her 
frame ; Haggerstone buttoned up his coat, and 
arranged his cravat with the air of a man so 
consummate a tactician, that he could actually 
roll himself in pitch and yet never catch the 
odor; while Purvis, whose dread of a duelist 
exceeded his fear of a mad dog, ensconced him- 
self behind a stand of geraniums, where he re- 
solved to live in a state of retirement until the 
terrible viscount had withdrawn. As for the 
count, a preparatory touch at his mustache, 
and a slight arrangement of his hair, sufficed 
him to meet any thing ; and as these were the 
ordinary details of his daily toilet, he performed 
them with a rapidity quite instinctive. 

To present one’s self in a room where our ap- 
pearance is unacceptable, is, perhaps, no slight 


test of tact, manner, and effrontery ; to be actu- 
ally indifferent to the feelings around, is to bt) 
insensible to the danger ; to see the peril and 
yet appear not to notice it, constitutes the true 
line of action. Lord Norwood was perfect in 
this piece of performance, and there was neither 
exaggerated cordiality nor any semblance of 
constraint in his manner as he advanced to Mrs. 
Ricketts, and, taking her hand, pressed it respects 
fully to his lips. 

“ This salutation,” said he, gayly, “is a com- 
mission from Lord Kennycroft, your old and con- 
stant admirer. It was his last word as we parted, 
‘ Kiss Mrs. Ricketts’s hand for me, and say, I 
am faithful as ever.’ ” 

“ Poor, dear lord ! General, here is Lord 
Norwood come to see uS.” 

“How good of him — how very kind. Just 
arrived from the East, my lord ?” said he, shak- 
ing Foglass by the hand, in mistake. 

“ No, sir ; from Malta.” He wouldn’t say 
England, for reasons. “ Miss Ricketts, I am 
most happy to see you ; and still occupied with 
the fine arts ? Haggy, how d’ye do ? Really 
it seems to me like yesterday since I sat here 
last in this delightful arm-chair, and looked about 
me, on all these dear familiar objects. You’ve 
varnished the Correggio, I think?” 

“ The Yandyk, my lord.” 

“To be sure — the Yandyk. How stupid I 
am. Indeed, Lady Foxington said, that not all 
your culture would ever make any thing of me.” 

How is Charlotte ?” asked Mrs. Ricketts ; 
this being the familiar for Lady F. 

“Just as you saw her last, Thinner, per- 
haps, but looking admirably.” 

“ And the dear duke — how is he ?” 

“Gouty — always gouty — but able to be 
about.” 

“I am so glad to hear it. It is so refreshing 
to talk of old friends.” 

“They are always talking of you. I’m sure, 

‘ Zoe’ — forgive me the liberty — Zoe Ricketts is 
an authority on every subject of taste and liter- 
ature.” 

“How did you come here, my lord?” whis- 
pered Haggerstone. 

“ The new opera broke down, and there is 
no house open before twelve,” was the hasty 
reply. 

“ Is Jemima married, my lord ?” 

“ No. There’s, something or other wrong 
about the settlements. Who’s the foreigner, 
Haggy ?” 

“A Pole. PetrolafTsky.” , 

“No, no — not a bit of it. I know him,” 
said the other, rapidly ; then, turning to Mrs. 
Ricketts, he grew warmly interested in the pri- 
vate life and adventures of the nobility, for all 
of whom she entertained a most catholic affec- 
tion. 

It was, indeed, a grand field-day for the peer- 
age ; even to the “ pensioners” all were under 
arms. It was a review such as she rarely en- 
joyed, and certainly she “improved the occa- 
sion.” She scattered about her noble person- 


117 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ages with the profusion of a child strewing wild 
flowers. I here were dukes she had known 
from their eradles; marchionesses with whom 
she had disported in childhood ; earls and vis- 
counts who had been her earliest playmates j 
not to speak of a more advanced stage in her 
history, when all these distinguished individuals 
were suppliants and suitors. To listen to her, 
you would swear that she had never played 
shuttlecock with any thing under an earl, nor 
trundled a hoop with aught below a lord in 
waiting! Norwood fooled her to the top of her 
bent. To use his own phrase, “ He left her 
easy hazards, and every thing on the balls.” It 
is needless to say that, in such pleasant converse, 
she had no memory for the noble viscount’s own 
trangressions. He might have robbed the Ex- 
chequer, or stolen the Crown jewels, for any 
thing that she could recollect ! and when, by a 
seeming accident, he did allude to Newmarket, 
and lament his most “ unlucky book,” she smiled 
complacently, as though to say, that he could 
afford himself even the luxury of being ruined, 
and not care for it. 

“ Florence is pretty much as it used to be, I 
suppose,” said he ; “ and onb really needs one’s 
friends to rebut and refute foolish rumors, when 
they get abroad. Now, you’ll oblige me by 
contradicting, if you ever hear this absurd story. 
I neither did win forty thousand from the Duke , 
of Stratton, nor shoot Tim in a duel, for non- 
payment.” Both these derelictions were in- 
vented on the moment. “ You’ll hear fifty 
other similar offenses laid to my charge ; and I 
trust to you and the Onslows for the refutation. 
In fact, it is the duty of one’s own class to de- 
fend 1 their order.’ ” 

Mrs. Ricketts smiled blandly, and bowed — 
bowed as though her gauze turban had been a 
coronet, and the tinsel finery, jeweled strawber- 
ry leaves! To be coupled with the Onslows in 
the defense of a viscount was a proud thought. 
What if it might be made a grand reality ? 

u apropos of the Onslows, my lord,” said she, 
insidiously, “you are very intimate with them. 
How is it that we have seen so little of each 
other? Are we not congenial spirits?” 

“ Good Heavens ! I thought you were like 
sisters. There never were people so made for 
each other. All your tastes, habits, associations 
— forgive me, if I say your very antipathies — are 
alike ; for you both are unforgiving enemies of 
vulgarity. Depend upon it, there has been 
some underhand influence at work. Rely on’t, 
that evil tongues have kept you apart.” This 
he said in a whisper, with a sidelong glance 
toward where Haggerstone sat at ecarte with 
the Pole. 

“Do you really think so?” asked she, red- 
den in or with anorer, as she followed the direction 
of his eyes. 

“ I can hit upon no other solution of the mys- 
tery,” said he, thoughtfully ; “ but know it I 
will, and must. You know, of course, that 
they can’t endure him.” 

“No, I never heard that!” 


“ It is not mere dislike, it is actual detesta- 
tion. I have striven to moderate the feeling. 
I have said, 1 True enough the man is bad 
‘toh,’ but you needn’t admit him to any thing 
like intimaev. Let him come and go with the 
herd you receive at your large parties, and, 
above all, never repeat any thing after him, for 
he has always the vulgar version of every inci- 
dent in high life.’ ” 

Mrs. Ricketts raised her arched eyebrows 
and looked astonished, but it was a feeling in 
which acquiescence was beautifully blended, and 
the viscount marked it well. 

“You must tell me something of this Miss 
Dalton,” said he, drawing his chair closer; 
“they affect a kind of mystery about her. Who 
is she ? What is she ?” 

“ There are various versions of her story, 
abroad,” said Mrs. Ricketts, who now spoke 
like the chief justice delivering a charge. 
“ Some say that she is a natural daughter of 
Sir Stafford’s ; some aver that she is the last of 
a distinguished family, whose fortune was em- 
bezzled by the Onslows ; others assert that she 
is a half-sister of Lady Hester’s own : but who 
ought to know the truth better than you, my 
lord I?” 

“ I know absolutely nothing. She joined 
them in Germany, but where, when, and how, 
I never heard.” 

“I’ll soon be able to inform you, my lord, on 
every detail of the matter,” said she, proudly. 
“Our kind friend yonder, Mr. Foglass, has un- 
dertaken to discover every thing. Mr. F. — 
will you touch his arm for me, Martha ? and, 
the gentleman being aroused to consciousness, 
now arose, and approached Mrs. Ricketts’s 
chair — “ may I be permitted to take a glance 
at your note-book?” This speech was accom- 
panied by a pantomimic gesture which he quick- 
ly understood. “ I wish to show you, my lord,” 
said she, addressing the viscount, “that we pro- 
ceed most methodically in our searches after 
title, as I sometimes call it — ha! ha! ha! Now, 
here is the precious little volume, and this will 
explain the degree of accuracy such an invests 
gation demands. This comes of living abroad, 
my lord,” added she, with a smile. “ One never 
can be too cautious — never too guarded in their 
intimacies ! The number of dubious people one 
meets with — the equivocal characters that some- 
how obtain a footing in society — Here, I 
really must ask you to decipher these ingenious 
hieroglyphics yourself.” And she handed the 
book to his lordship. 

He took it courteously at the spot she opened, 
and, as his eyes fell upon the page, a slight — 
very slight — flush rose to his cheek, while he 
continued to read the lines before him more 
than once over. “ Very explicit, certainly !” 
said he, while a smile of strange meaning culled 
his lip ; and then, closing the book, he returned 
it to the lady’s hand ; not, however, before he 
had adroitly torn out the page he had been 
looking at, and which contained the following 
words : “ Norwood’s affair — the precise story 


118 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


of the N. M. business — if cut in England, and 
scratched at the ‘Whip.’” “I can not suffi- 
ciently commend either your caution or your 
tact, Mrs. Ricketts,” said he, bowing urbanely; 

“ without a little scrutiny of this kind, our salons 
would be overrun with blacklegs and bad char- 
acters !” 

It was now late — late enough for Lady Hes- 
ter — and the viscount rose to take his leave. 
He was perfectly satisfied with the results of 
his visit. He had secretly enjoyed all the ab- 
surdities of his hostess, and even stored up some 
of her charming flights for repetition elsewhere ; 
he had damaged Haggerstone, whose evil-speak- 
ing he dreaded, and, by impugning his good- 
breeding, had despoiled him of all credit; he 
had seen the Polish count in a society which, 
even such as it was, was many degrees above 
his pretensions, and, although they met without 
recognition, a masonic glance of intelligence 
had passed between them ; and, lastly, he had 
made an ally of the dear Zoe herself, ready 
to swear to his good character, and vouch for 
the spotless honor of all his dealings on turf or 
card-table. 

“ Has he explained the Newmarket affair, 
madam ?” said Haggerstone, as the door closed 
on the viscount’s departure. 

“ Perfectly, colonel ; there is not the shadow 
of a suspicion against him.” 

“ And so he was not scr — scr — scratched at , 


I the £ Whip ?’ ” cried Purvis, emerging from his 
leafy retreat. 

“ Nothing of the kind, Scroope.” 

“A scratch, but not a wound, perhaps,” said 
Haggerstone, with a grin of malice. 

“Iam ver happy — please ver moosh,” said the 
count, “for de sake of de order. I am repub- 
liquecain, but never forget I’m de noble blood !” 

“Beautiful sentiment,” exclaimed Mrs. Rick- 
etts, enthusiastically. “ Martha, did you hear 
what the count said ? General, I hope you 
didn’t lose it?” 

“ I was alway for de cause of de people,” 
said the count, throwing back his hair wildly, 
and seeming as if ready to do battle at a mo- 
ment’s warning. 

“ For an anti-monarchist, he turns up the king 
wonderfully often at ecarte ,” said Haggerstone, 
in a low muttering, only overheard by Martha. 

“I don’t think the demo — demo — demo — ” 
But before Purvis had finished his polysyllabic 
word, the company had time to make their fare- 
well speeches and depart ; indeed, as the serv- 
ant came to extinguish the lamps, he found the 
patient Purvis very red in the face, and with 
other signs of excitement, deeply seated in a 
chair, as if struggling against an access of suf- 
focation. 

What the profound sentiment which he desired 
to enunciate might therefore be, is lost to history, 
and this true narrative is unable to record. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

G: ’* . . 

THE VISCOUNT’S VISION. 



"W hen Lord Norwood arrived at the Mazza- 
rini Palace, he was surprised not to find the 
Usual half-dozen carriages of the habitues drawn 
tip in the court-yard, and still more so to learn 
that her ladyship did not receive that evening. 
He ascended to George Onslow’s apartment, 
and discovered that he had dined with Prince 
Midchikoff, and not yet returned. Not know- 
ing how to spend the hours, so much earlier 
than those of his usually retiring to rest, he 
lighted a cigar, and threw himself on a sofa 
before the fire. 

The reveries of men who live much in the 
world are seldom very agreeable ; the work of 
self-examination comes with a double penalty 
when it is rarely exercised, and the heavy ar- 
rears of time are formidable scores to confront. 
Lord Norwood was no exception to this theory. 
Not that he was one to waste time or temper in 
self-reproaches. The by-gone was essentially 


with him the “irrevocable.” It might, it is 
true, occasionally suggest a hint for the future, 
but it never originated a sorrow for the past. 
His philosophy was a very brief code, and com- 
prised itself in this — “ That he didn’t think well 
of himself, but thought worse of all others.” All 
that he had seen of life was duplicity, falsehood, 
selfishness, and treachery. In different stations 
these characteristics took different forms ; and 
what was artfully cloaked in courtesy by the 
lord, was displayed in all its naked deformity by 
the plebeian. 

He might have conducted himself respectably 
enough had he been rich — at least, he fervently 
believed so — but he was poor, and therefore 
driven to stratagems to maintain his position in 
society. Cheated by his guardians and neg- 
lected by his tutor, he was sent into the world 
half-ruined and wholly ignorant, to become at 
first a victim, and afterward the victimizer 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


With no spirit of retributive vengeance — there ' 
was nothing of reprisal in his line of conduct — 
he simply thought that such was the natural and 
inevitable course of events, and that every man 
begins as dupe and ends as knave. The highest 
flight of the human mind, in his esteem, was 
successful hypocrisy ; and although without the 
plastic wit or the actual knowledge of life which 
are required well to sustain a part, he had con- 
trived to impose upon a very large number of 
persons, who looked up to his rank ; for, strange 
enough, many who would not have been duped 
by a commoner, fell easy victims to the arts of 
“ my lord.” ^ 

The value of his title he understood perfectly. 
He knew every thing it could, and every thing 
it could not do for him. He was aware that 
the aristocracy of England will stand by one of 
their order through many vicissitudes ; and that 
he who is born to a coronet has a charmed life, 
in circumstances where one less noble must 
perish ingloriously. He knew, too, how, for 
very shame’s sake, they would screen one of 
themselves, and by a hundred devices seem to 
contradict before the world, what they lament 
over behind its back : and, lastly, he knew well 
that he had always a title and a lineage to be- 
stow ; and that the Peerage was the great prize 
among the daughters of men. 

Now, latterly, he had been pushing preroga- 
tive somewhat too far : he had won large sums 
from young men not out of their teens ; he had 
been associated in play transactions with names 
less then reputable; and, finally, having backed 
a stable to an immense amount at Newmarket, 
had levanted on the day of his losing. He had 
done the act deliberately and calmly. It was a 
coup which, if successful, replaced him in credit 
and affluence ; if a failure, it only confirmed the 
wavering judgment of his set, and left him to 
shift for the future in a different sphere ; for, 
while a disgraced viscount is very bad company 
for viscounts, he is often a very welcome guest 
among that amiably innocent class who think 
the privileges of the aristocracy include bad 
morals with blue ribbons. 

The turf could now no longer be a career 
with him. Ecarte and Lansquenet were almost 
as much out of the question. Billiards, as Sir 
Walter said of Literature, “might be a walk- 
ing-stick, but never a crutch.” There was, 
then, nothing left for it, but marriage. A rich 
heiress was his last coup , and as, in all likelihood, 
the thing could not be done twice, it required 
great circumspection. 

In England this were easy enough. The 
manufacturing districts were grown ambitious. 
Cotton-lords were desirous of a more recog- 
nized nobility; and mill-owners could be found 
ready to buy a coronet at the cost of half their 
fortune. But from England late events had 
banished him, and with a most damaged repu- 
tation. 

Now, carrying nobility to the Continent, was 
like bringing coals to Newcastle, the whole 
length and breadth of the land being covered j 


119 

with counts, barons, dukes, and princes ; and 
although English nobility stands on a different 
footing, there was no distinguishing the “real 
article” amid this mass of counterfeit. 

Every Frenchman of small fortune was an 
emigre count, every German, of none, was sure 
to be a baron ; all Poles, unwashed, uncombed, 
and uncared for, were of the very cream of the 
aristocracy ; and as for Italians ! it was a na- 
tion of princes, with their uncles all cardinals. 
To be a viscount in such company was, per- 
haps, like Lord Castlereagh’s unstarred coat, 
plus distingue , but certainly more modest. The 
milor, if not associated with boundless wealth, 
six carriages, two couriers, three cooks, and a 
groom of the chambers, the whole of the 
“Russie,” or the “Black Eagle,” means noth- 
ing abroad ! if not bound up with all the ex- 
travagance, and all the eccentricities of riches 
— if not dazzling by display, or amazing by 
oddity. It is a contradiction of terms ; and to 
be an English noble, without waste, profusion, 
and absurdity, is to deny your country, or be a 
counterfeit of your class. 

Lord Norwood knew and felt all these things. 
They had often occupied his speculations and 
engaged his thoughts ; so that, if his mind re- 
verted to them now, it was to regard them as 
facts for future theory to build upon, as mathe- 
maticians make use of the proofs of geometry 
without going over the steps which lead to con- 
viction. No ; all his present reflections took a 
practical form, and might be summed up in the 
one resolve, “I must go no further — I have 
done every thing that a man dare do, perhaps a 
little more, and yet keep his footing in the 
world.” That tacit verdict of “not proven,” 
which had been passed upon so many of his 
actions, might at any moment be reversed now, 
and a review of his life’s career presented any 
thing but a bright retrospect. Expulsion from 
a great school at thirteen ; three years’ private 
dissipation and secret wickedness in a clergy- 
man’s family ; a dissolute i*egiment, from which 
he was given leave to sell out at Malta; two 
years with the Legion, or Don Carlos, it mat- 
tered not which, in Spain ; a year or so in Lon- 
don, with a weak attempt at reformation ; a 
staff appointment in India obtained and sold ; 
exposure partly hushed up ; Debts ; Jews ; Re- 
newals ; the Fleet ; the Bankruptcy Court ; a 
few disreputable Duels ; an action for Seduc- 
tion ; ending with the last affair at Newmarket, 
made up the grand outline ; the details com- 
prising various little episodes, with which we 
must not trouble ourselves. 

One incident, however, would come up prom- 
inently before his lordship’s mind, and, however 
little given to let the past usurp the thoughts 
which should be given to the present, it still 
insisted upon sharing his attention. This was 
no less than a little love affair in Spain with a 
“ ballerina” of the Opera, with whom, by the 
aid of a young priest then studying at Saragossa 
he had contracted a mock marriage. The sud- 
| den movement of a corps of the army to which 


120 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


he was attached, gave him an opportunity of an 
easy divorce from his bride ; and it is likely he 
had not twice thought of her since the event 
had happened. Now, however, that an inten- 
tion of marrying in reality occurred to him, the 
incident came freshly to his mind, and he jocu- 
larly wondered if his second marriage might 
prove more fortunate than his first. 

The hour and the place were favorable to 
reverie. It was past midnight; all was silent 
and noiseless in the great Palace ; the sharp 
ticking of the clock on the mantle-piece was the 
only sound to be heard, save, at a long distance 
off, the dull, subdued flow of tfte Arno ; the 
room itself, unlighted except by the flickering 
wood fire, was in deep shadow; and, lulled by 
these influences and his mild “Manilla,” Nor- 
wood was free to revel in so much of dream- 
land as natures like his ever explore. 

Who can tell whether men of this stamp know 
what it is to “grieve” — whether chagrin for 
some momentary disappointment, anger at being 
thwarted, is not the nearest approach to sorrow 
that they ever feel ? The whole course of their 
lives seems opposed to the notion of deep or in- 
tense feeling, and the restless activity of their 
ingenious minds appears to deny the possibility 
of regrets. As for Norwood, he would have 
laughed at the puerility of going over the by- 
gone ; therefore, if he did recur to a former 
incident of his life, it was involuntary, and prob- 
ably induced by the accidental similarity with 
those which now engaged his thoughts. 

“If this Dalton girl be rich,” thought he, “I 
might do worse. There are no relatives to 
make impertinent inquiries, or ask awkward 
questions. Hester can, and must, if I desire, 
assist me. Living out of England, the girl her- 
self will have heard nothing of my doings, and 
in name, appearance, and air, she is presentable 
any where.” He thought, too, that, as a mar- 
ried man, his character would be in a measure 
rehabilitated. It would be like entering on a 
new road in life ; and if this could be done with 
a certain degree of style and outlay, he had 
great trust in the world’s charity and forgive- 
mgness to pardon all the past. “ A good house 
and a good cook,” thought he, are the best 
witnesses to call to character I have ever met. 
Turtle and champagne have proved sovereign 
remedies for slander in all ages ; and the man 
who can sport Lafitte in the evening, and split 
a pencil at twenty paces of a morning, may defy 
envy, hatred, and malioe, and all uncharitabie- 
ness.” 

To find out about this girl’s fortune was then 
his first object. As for family, his own rank 
was enough tor both. The matter must be done 
quickly. The London season over, England 
would be pouring its myriads of talking, gos- 
siping travelers over the Continent, and then 
he should be discussed — probably avoided and 
shunned too. 

Even already certain unmistakable signs of 
coolness announced themselves among the men 
of his acquaintance. George Onslow avoided 


play when in his company. Treviliani, one of 
Lady Hester’s chief danglers, and the patron of 
the Turf in Tuscany, wouldn’t even allude to a 
horse before him. Prince Midchikoff went 
further, and actually, save on rare occasions, 
omitted him from his dinner list. Now, although 
Norwood averred that he detested “ petit jeu ,” 
hated spoony talk about racing, and dreaded the 
tiresome display of a “ Tartar feast,” these 
were all threatening indications, and he saw 
their meaning. He would willingly have fast- 
ened upon sopie one man — fixed a quarrel on 
him, and shot him. He had more than once in 
life adopted this policy with success ; but here 
it would have been inapplicable, and the public 
opinion, he sought to bring on his own side, 
would have been only more inevitably arrayed 
against him. 

“In what a mess does the want of money 
involve a man !” thought he, as he lay before 
the half dying embers of the wood fire. “ Had 
I won my bets, on ‘ Chanticleer,’ or had I but 
backed ‘ Amontillado,’ how different had my 
position been to-day. That the simple change 
of one name for another in my betting-book — 
the mere hazard of a choice — of a horse too — 
should influence a man’s whole life, is a pretty 
fair instance of what the world is ! Had I 
‘come right,’ I should now be the favored guest 
of some noble duke, shooting his Grace’s pheas- 
ants, drinking his Burgundy, and flirting with 
his daughters. Fortune willed it otherwise, 
and here I am, actually plotting a match with 
a nameless girl to rescue myself from utter 
ruin. Three weeks ago I would not have be- 
lieved that this could happen : and who can tell 
what another three weeks may bring forth ? — 
perhaps already there is mischief brewing. 
What if my lady’s refusal to receive this even- 
ing, may have some signification in it ? Hag- 
gerstone is too courteous by half, and Jekyl has 
never called upon me since my arrival !” He 
laughed ironically as he said this, and added, 
“ It is a bold game, after all, for them to play ! 
Reprisals — to two of them at least — might 
prove awkward; and as for ‘Master Albert,’ 
he lives but on general sufferance ! There has 
been a long run of luck against me — nothing 
but ill-fortune since the day I might have mar- 
ried Hester, and yet hung back, and that very 
same year she marries another, and inherits an 
immense fortune in India. What a blow to 
each of us ! Such has ^een my lot through 
life ; always backing the loser till the very 
moment when luck changes, and his turn comes 
to win.” 

As these thoughts passed through his mind, 
weariness, the silence of the hour, the darkened 
room, induced slumber ; and although once or 
twice he made a half-effort to arouse himself 
and go home, the listless feeling gained the 
mastery, and he dropped off’ to sleep. The 
uneasy consciences have oftentimes very easv 
slumbers. Norwood’s was of the calmest : not 
a dream, not one flitting fancy disturbed it. 

It was already nigh day as he lay thus, when 


12*1 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the dull roll of wheels beneath the window in 
part awoke him ; at least, it so far aroused him 
that ho remembered where he was, and fancied 
that it might be George Onslow, on the return 
from his dinner party. He lay for some min- 
utes expecting to hear his step upon the stair, 
and see him enter the room ; but as all seemed 
to resume its wonted quiet, he was dozing oflf 
again, when he heard the sound of a hand upon 
the lock of the door. 

It is one of the strange instincts of half-slum- 
ber to be often more alive to the influence of 
subdued and stealthy sounds than to louder 
noises. The slightest whisperings, the low 
murmurings of a human voice, the creaking of 
a chair, the cautious drawing back of a curtain, 
will jar upon and arouse the faculties that have 
been insensible to the rushing flow of a cata- 
ract, or the dull booming of the sea. 

Slight as were the sounds now heard, Nor- 
wood started as he listened to them, and, at 
once rousing himself, he fixed his eyes upon 
the door, in which the handle was seen to turn 
slowly and cautiously. The impression that it 
was a robber immediately occurred to him, and 
he determined to lie still and motionless, to 
watch what might happen. He was not want- 
ing in personal courage, and had full confidence 
in his strength and activity. 

The door at last opened : at first, a very lit- 
tle and slowly, then gradually more and more, 
till, by the mysterious half-light to which his 
eyes had grown accustomed, Norwood could see 
the flounces of a female dress, and the small, 
neat foot of a woman beneath it. The faint, 
uncertain flame of the fire showed him thus 
much, but. left the remainder of the figure in 
deep shadow. 

Whether from excess of caution, or that she 
was yet hesitating what course to take, she re- 
mained for some seconds motionless ; and Nor- 
wood, who' had subdued his breathing to the 
utmost, lay in the deep shadow, speculating on 
the upshot of an adventure, from which he 
promised himself at least an amusing story. 
The deep black lace which fell over the arched 
instep indicated a degree of rank in the wearer 
that gave a piquancy to the incident, and im- 
parted a zest to the curiosity of a man who 
probably knew no higher pleasure in life than 
in possessing the secrets of his acquaintance. 

He had time to run over in his mind a dozen 
little speculations of who she was, ere she stir- 
red ; and at last, as if with change of purpose, 
he saw, or fancied that he saw, the door begin- 
ning slowly to close. Whether this was a 

,i v ' • 


mere trick of his excited imagination, or not, 
a sudden gesture of impatience on his part 
threw down one of the cushions of the sofa. 
A slight shriek — so slight as to be barely heard 
— broke from the female, and she banged the 
door to. Norwood reached it with a spring ; 
but although, as he wrenched it open, he could 
yet hear the rustling of a woman’s dress in the 
passage, the sharp sound of a door hastily shut 
and locked defied all thought of pursuit, and he 
stood pondering over what had happened, and 
almost doubtful of its reality. 

“ At least the fair visitor belongs to the fam- 
fly ; that much I may rely upon,” said he, as 
he lighted a candle to explore the locality a 
little closer. The corridor, however, abruptly 
stopped at a small door, which was locked on 
the inside, but to what portion of the house it 
led, he could not even conjecture. He was not 
a very unlikely man to trace the clew of such 
an adventure as this seemed to be. It was one 
of those incidents with which his course of life 
had made him somewhat conversant ; and few 
were better able to fill up from conjecture 
every blank of such a history. Nor was he 
one to shrink from any suspicion, no matter 
how repugnant to every thought of honor, nor 
how improbable to every mind less imbued 
with vice than his own. 

For a moment or two, however, he almost 
doubted whether the whole might not have 
been a dream. So sudden, so brief, so track- 
less did it all appear. This doubt was, how- 
ever, quickly resolved, as his eyes fell upon the 
floor, where a small fragment of a lace dress 
lay, as it was caught and torn off' in the closing 
door. Norwood took it up, and sat down to 
examine it with attention. 

“Point d’Alenpon,” said he, “bespeaks no 
vulgar wearer ; and such is this ! Who could 
have thought of George Onslow playing Lotha- 
rio ! But this comes of Italy. And now to 
find her out.” He ran over to himself half-a- 
dozen names, in which were nearly as many 
nationalities, but some doubt accompanied each. 
“No matter,” thought he, “ the secret will 
keep.” 

He suddenly remembered at the instant that 
he had promised an acquaintance to pass some 
days with him in the Maremma, shooting; and, 
not sorry to have so good a reason for a few 
days’ absence, he arose and set out toward his 
hotel, having first carefully placed within his 
pocket-book the little fragment of lace — a clew 
to a mystery he was resolved to explore here- 
after. 


i , 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


FRANK’S JOURNEY. 


Our readers may, ere this, have surmised 
that Frank Dalton’s career as a soldier was 
neither very adventurous nor exciting, since 
otherwise we should scarcely have so nearly 
forgotten him. When he parted with Hanserl 
to pursue his journey, his heart was full of 
warring and conflicting emotions, love of home, 
and hope of future distinction, alternately sway- 
ing him ; so that, while his affections drew him 
ever backward, his ambitions urged him to go on. 

“ I could have been so happy to have lived 
with them,” thought he, u even as a peasant 
lives — a life of daily toil. I would have asked 
for no higher fortune than that peaceful home 
we had made for ourselves by our own affec- 
tions — the happy fireside, that sufficed us for 
all the blandishments of wealth and riches. Still 
there would have been something ignoble in this 
humility — something that would ill become my 
blood as a Dalton. It was not thus my ances- 
tors understood their station — it was not with 
such lowly ambitions their hearts were stirred. 
Count Stephen himself might at this hour have 
been in obscurity and poverty — as great, per- 
haps, as our own — had he been thus minded ; 
and now he is a field-marshal, with a 1 Maria 
Theresa’ cross on his breast ! and this without 
one friend to counsel or to aid him ! What a 
noble service is that where merit can win its 
way self-sustained and independent — where, 
without the indignity of a patron, the path of 
honorable enterprise lies free and open to all ! 
What generous promptings, what bold aspira- 
tions such a career engenders ! He shall not 
be ashamed of me — he shall not have to blush 
for the Dalton blood,” said the boy, enthusiasti- 
cally ; and he reveled in a dream of the old 
count’s ecstasy on finding a nephew so worthy 
of their name, and in his fancy he saw pictures 
of future scenes in which he figured. All of 
these had the same rose tint; for while in some 
he imagined himself winning the high rewards 
of great achievements, in others he was the 
caressed and flattered guest of rank and beauty. 
“ To think that I should once have been thus!” 
cried he, laughing at the conceit, “ trudging 
along the high-road with a knapsack on my 
shoulder, like a Bursch in his ‘ Wanderjahre ” 
and then he vowed to himself “ that he would 
have a picture taken of his humble guise as first 
he started in life, to hang up at some future 
day beside the decorated soldier he was yet to 
be.” * - ' 


Selfishness can wear many a mask. Some- 
times it can array itself in features almost noble 
— more often its traits are of the very meanest. 
Frank’s egotism was of the former kind. He 
wanted to attain distinction by an honorable 
path — he would not have stooped to any other. 
He was ready to do, or dare, all for greatness. 
No peril could deter, no danger could daunt 
him ; but yet was he totally deficient in that 
greatest element of success — that patient dis- 
cipline of the mind which, made up of humility 
and confidence, can wait and bide its time, 
earning the prizes of life before it claims them. 
His pride of family, however, was his greatest 
blemish, since it suggested a false notion of 
distinction — a pretension so groundless, that, 
like a forged bank-note, it was sure to involve 
even the bearer in disgrace. 

So full was he of himself and his own future, 
that he took but little note of the way as he 
went. Avoiding, from a sense of pride, to as- 
sociate with the “ Traveling Youths,” as they 
are called, he walked along from early morning 
to late evening, alone and companionless. It 
was mostly a dreary and uninteresting road, 
either leading through dark and gloomy pine 
forests, or over great plains of swampy surface, 
where the stubble of the tall maize, or the 
stunted vines, were the only traces of vegetation. 
As he drew near the Tyrol, however, the great 
mountains came in sight, while the continual 
ascent told that he was gradually reaching the 
land of glaciers and Snow-peaks. Day by day 
he found the road less and less frequented : 
these lonely districts were little resorted to by 
the wandering apprentices, so that frequently 
Frank did not meet a single traveler from day- 
dawn till night. Perhaps he felt little regret 
at this, leaving him, as it did, more time for 
those day-dreams in which he loved to revel. 
Now and then, some giant mountain, glittering 
in the sun ; or some dark gorge, thousands of 
feet below him, would chase away his reverie, 
and leave him, for a time, in a half-bewildered 
and wondering astonishment ; but his thoughts 
soon resumed their old track, and he would plod 
along, staff in hand, as before. 

Walking from before daybreak to a late hour 
of the evening, Frank frequently accomplished 
in his day’s journey as many miles as the trav- 
eler who, by post, only spent the few hours of 
mid-day on the road ; in fact, he might have thus 
measured his speed, had he been less wrapped 


123 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


up in his own fancies, since, for several days, a 
caleche, drawn by three post-horses, had regu- 
larly passed him on the road, and always about 
the same hour. 

1 rank saw nothing of this ; and when, on a 
bright and a frosty day he began the ascent of 
the Arlberg, he little knew that the carriage, 
about hall a mile in front, had been his travel- 
ing-companion for the past week. Disdaining 
to follow the winding high-road, Frank ascend- 
ed by those foot-tracks which gain upon the 
zigzags, and thus soon was miles in advance 
of the caleche. At last he reached the half-way 
point of ascent, and was glad to rest himself for 
a few minutes on one of the benches, which 
German thoughtfulness for the wayfarer never 
neglects to place in suitable spots. A low 
parapet, of a couple of feet, separated the road 
from a deep and almost perpendicular preci- 
pice, at the foot of which, above two thousand 
feet beneath, stood the village of Stuben. There 
was the little chapel in Which he had heard his 
morning’s mass — there the little Platz, where he 
had seen the post-horses getting ready for the 
travelers; there, too, the little fountain, covered 
over with a shed of straw, and glistening with 
many an icicle in the bright sun. The very 
voices of the people reached him wiiere he sat : 
and the sounds of a street organ floated upward 
through the still atmosphere. It was a scene 
of peaceful isolation, such as would have pleased 
Nelly’s fancy. It was like one of those “ Dorfs” 
she herself had often carved to amuse a winter’s 
evening, and Frank’s eyes filled up as he thought 
of her and of home. 

The sound of feet upon the snow suddenly 
roused him, and, on looking round, Frank saw 
a traveler slowly coming up the pass. His 
dress at once proclaimed that he was not a 
pedestrian save from choice, and was merely 
sauntering along in advance of his carriage. In 
the mere cursory glance Frank bestowed upon 
him. he could see that he was a young and 
handsome man, with a certain soldier-like bear- 
ing in his air, that well suited his bold but 
somewhat stern features. 

“ You journey well, young fellow,” said he, 
addressing Frank familiarly. “ This is the fifth 
day we have been fellow-travelers ; and al- 
though I have had post-horses, you have always 
kept up with me on your feet.” 

Frank touched his cap with a somewhat stiff 
courtesy at this unceremonious address ; and, 
without deigning a reply, employed himself in 
arranging the straps of his knapsack. 

“ Are you a soldier ?” asked the stranger. 

“ A cadet !” replied Frank, bluntly. 

“ In what regiment, may I ask?” 

“ The Franz Carl.” 

“ Ah ! my own old corps,” said the other, 
gayly. “ I "served four years with them in the 
Banat. From what part of the empire are you 
— you haven’t the accent of an Austrian.” 

“ I am an Irishman.” 

t; Oh ! that explains it. And your name?” 

“ Dalton. And now, sir, what may be yours, ' 


for I don’t see why this curiosity is to be one- 
sided,” said Frank, with an air even more in- 
solent than the words. 

“ I am Count Ernest of Walstein,” said the 
other, without a touch of irritation. 

“What rank do you hold in the service?” 
asked Frank, boldly. 

“ That of lieutenant-colonel, boy.” 

“ And your age may be about thirty?” said 
Frank, half in question and half in sarcasm. 

“ I was twenty-eight last August,” was the 
calm reply. 

“By Jove! that is a service,” exclaimed 
Frank, “where a man scarcely ten years my 
senior may command a regiment J” 

The other laughed, and after a brief pause, 
said, “ People are in the habit of calling me 
fortunate, so that you must not suppose my case 
to be the rule.” 

“ Be it so : even as an exception, the exam- 
ple is a bright one. Another may do what you 
have done.” 

“ If you mean that I have earned my rank by 
services, boy,” said the count, smiling, “you 
would make a grave mistake. My promotion 
had another source.” 

Frank looked as though he were curious 
to hear the explanation ; but the other gave 
none. 

“How do you call yourself?” asked he of 
Frank, after a pause. 

“ Dalton,” replied the boy, more respectfully 
than before. 

“ We have a field-marshal of that name in 
the service — a most gallant old soldier too.” 

“ My gi'anduncle !” cried Frank with enthu- 
siasm. 

“ Indeed ! So you are a grandnephew to the 
Graf von Auersberg,” said the count, taking a 
more deliberate view than he had yet bestowed 
upon him. “ Then how comes it you are trav- 
eling in this fashion, and on foot?” 

“ I have not asked you why you journey in 
a caleche with three horses,” said Frank, in- 
solently. 

“ It’s my habit to do so.” 

“This, then, may be mine , sir,” said Frank, 
throwing his knapsack on his shoulder, and pre- 
paring to depart. 

“ Is not the Franz Carl at Vienna?” said the 
count, not seeming to notice the irritation of his 
manner. 

“ I believe so.” 

“ Well, then, as I am going thither, perhaps 
you will accept of a seat in my caleche ?” 

There was a frankness in the way this offer 
w r as made that suddenly routed the ill-temper 
Frank had fallen into. No one was less dis- 
posed than himself to accept of a favor from a 
perfect stranger ; but the tone and manner of 
the proffer had, somehow, disarmed it of all ap- 
pearance of such, and as he stood uncertain 
w r hat answer to make, the count added, “ I’m 
always lucky. I w r as just wishing for a travel- 
ing-companion, and fortune has thrown us into 
■ acquaintanceship.” 


f 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


124 

“ I don’t know — I can scarcely tell,” said 
Frank, hesitatingly, “ how or what to answer.” 

“ You forget that we are comrades, Dalton — 
or shall be, at least, in another day or two,” 
said the count, familiarly ; “so step in, and no 
more about it.” 

The caleche had drawn up as he spoke, and 
the courier stood, cap in hand, beside the door, 
so that Frank had no time for any but an abrupt 
refusal, and that he could not give ; he there- 
fore bowed his head, and sprang in. The door 
was slammed sharply to, and the next moment 
the horses were rattling along over the snow, 
the merry bells of the harness jingling pleasantly 
as they went. 

Probably no two beings could present a much 
stronger contrast than the two who now jour- 
neyed along side by side. The one, rich, 
highly placed, and distinguished with every 
gift of fortune at his command, and yet pleasure- 
sick, weary, and discontented ; the other, poor, 
and almost friendless, full of hope, and ardent 
with all the buoyancy of youth. The count 
was as jaded and tired of life as the cadet was 
eager to enjoy it. Notwithstanding — perhaps 
we should rather say — in virtue of these strong 
contrarieties, they made admirable traveling- 
companions, and the road slipped away uncon- 
sciously to each. 

At Inspruck they halted for a day or two, 
and Frank accompanied his new friend to the 
cafes and theaters, mingling in the throng of 
those whose life is a round of easy dissipation. 
It is true, that to conform by dress and de- 
meanor with these, Frank was obliged to spend 
the golden coin of Nelly’s purse ; louis after 
louis went in some one extravagance or another 
— sacrifices that cost him many a pang, but 
which, from pride, he bore up against with 
seeming indifference. Walstein presented him 
every where as the nephew of the old Field- 
Marshal von Auersberg ; and as nothing was 
more common than to see a young cadet dis- 
pensing the most lavish sums, with equipages, 
liveries, and servants, none seemed surprised 
that the youth should indulge in these habits 
and tastes of extravagance. His very enjoy- 
ment seemed like an earnest of being long 
habituated to these modes of life, for whether 
he played or drank, or in whatever excesses he 
mingled, there was ever the same joyous spirit; 
and Frank Dalton had all the outward signs of 
a youth rich in every accident of fortune. At 
first, thoughts of his humble home and of those 
by whose sacrifices he was enabled to indulge 
in such costly pleasures, would cross his mind, 
and, between shame and sorrow, he felt de- 
graded and debased before himself; but, by 
degrees, the levity of action induced, as it ever 
will do, the levity of thinking ; and he suffered 
himself to believe that “ he was no worse than 
others.” A more fatal philosophy than this, 
youth never adopted, and he who 'seeks alow 
standard, rarely stops, till he falls beneath even 
that. Frank’s pride of family made him vain, 
and his vanity made him credulous; he, there- 


fore, implicitly believed all that his new com- 
panions told him. The familiar “ thee” and 
“ thou” of “ camaraderie,” giving an air of 
friendship to all the flatteries. 

“ Were I a nephew of a field-marshal, like 
thee, I’d not serve in an infantry corps. I'd bo 
in the Lichtenstein Hussars, or the Lancers of 
the Kaiser,” said one. 

“ So he will,” cried another. “ Dalton only 
joined the Franz Carl to get his promotion 
quickly. Once at Vienna, he will be an officer, 
and ready to exchange his regiment.” 

“ Old Auersberg can make thee what he will, 
lad,” said a third. “ He might have been Min- 
ister of War himself, if he had liked it. The 
Emperor Franz loved him as a brother.” 

“ And he is rich, too ; no one knows how 
rich,” broke in a fourth. “He commanded for 
many years on the Turkish frontier, in those 
good days when our Grenzers used to make 
forays upon the villages, and every Pashalio 
paid its black mail for peace’ sake.” 

“ Thou art a lucky dog, Dalton, to find thy 
promotion and an inheritance thus secured to 
thee.” 

“ When thou hast a regiment, lad, don’t for- 
get us, poor devils, here, that have no uncles in 
the ‘ Maria Theresa’ category.” 

“ I’d lay my life on’t, that he is a colonel be- 
fore I become rittmeister,” said a young lieu- 
tenant of dragoons, “ and I have had five years’ 
hard service in Galicia and Servia.” 

“And why not?” broke in Count Walstein, 
who sat silently, up to this, smoking his meer- 
schaum in a corner. “ Has the empire lost its 
aristocratic character ? Are not birth and blood 
to have their claims, as of old ?” 

This speech met a ready acceptance, for the 
company consisted of those who either were, or 
affected to be, of noble extraction. 

“ How our fathers deceive themselves in try- 
ing to deceive us!” said a young Hungarian 
cadet. “ I, too, was sent off to join my regi- 
ment on foot. Just fancy — to walk from Arad 
to Presburg ! I, that never went twenty miles 
in my life, save on the saddle. They fitted me 
with my knapsack — just such a thing as Dalton’s. 
I suppose about as many florins jingled in my 
purse as in his. They gave me their blessing 
and a map of the road, with each day’s journey 
marked out upon it. And how far did I go 
a-foot, thinkst thou? Two miles and a half. 
There I took an 1 Eil Bauer,’ with four good 
horses and a wicker caleche, and we drove our 
sixty, sometimes seventy miles a day. Each 
night we put up at some good country house or 
other — Honyadi’s — Ctzyscheny’s — Palfi’s ; all 
lay on the road, and I found out about fifty 
cousins I never knew of before, and made a 
capital acquaintance, too, the Prince Paul of 
Ettlingen, who, owning a regiment of Light 
Dragoons, took me into his corps, and, when I 
joined them at Leutmeritz, I was already an 
officer.” 

“ What stuff it is ! They preach about 
economy and thrift ! Are we the sons of peas- 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


125 


ants or petty shopkeepers ? It comes well, I “ What care I with whom or where. With 
too, from them in their princely chateaux to Prussia, if you will, to fight out our oltl scores 
tell us that we must live like common soldiers, about Franconia — with Russia, if vou like bet- 
So that, while yesterday, as it were, I sat at a ter, for the Danubian provinces, and her Servian 
table covered with silver, and drank my Tokay supremacy — with France; she’s always ready, 
from a Venetian glass, to-morrow I must put up with a cause or without one — with Italy ; to 
with sour Melniker, or, mayhap, Bavarian beer, ! round off our frontier, and push our limits to the 
with black bread, and a sausage to help it Apennines — I’d say, with England, only Dal- 
down !” 1 ton mightn’t like it.” 

“ Our worthy progenitors knew better in their | “ And where would you pick your quarrel 

own young days, or we should not have so many with England?” said Frank, laughing, 
debts and mortgages on our estates — eh, Wal- ! “Easily enough — through our embassador 
stein?” at the Porte, or some outlying station, when? 

“I suppose the world is pretty much alike, Russia is her rival.” 
in every age,” said the count, laughing. “ It j “ Hang your politics,” broke in a Hungarian, 
now and then takes a virtuous fit, and affects j “ Let us fight when the time comes, but not 
to be better than it used to be ; but I shrewdly bother our heads about the cause. I’d rather 
suspect that the only difference is in the hypo- take my chance of a sabre-cut any day, than 
critical pretension. When I entered the service addle my brains with too much thought. Here’s 
— and it is not so many years ago that I can to you, Dalton — mayst soon be a rittmeistcr 
not recollect it — the cant w T as, to resemble that of Hussars, lad ; a prouder thing thou needst 
rough school of the days of old Frederick and not ask for.” 

Maria Theresa. Trenck’s ‘ Pandom-s,’ with: “Thou shalt give us a jolly supper at the 
their scarlet breeches stuffed into their wide ; ‘ Schwan,’ Dalton, when we meet at Vienna,” 


boot-tops, were the mode ; and to wear your 
mustache to your shoulders — to cry, 4 Bey’m 
Henker !’ and 1 Alle Blitzen !’ every moment, 
were the veritable types of the soldier. Now 
we have changed all that. We have the Anglo- 
mania of English grooms and equipages, top- 
boots, curricles, hurdle-races, champagne sup- 
pers. Dalton will be the 4 ton’ in his regiment, 
and any extravagance he likes to launch into r 
certain to have its followers.” 

The youth blushed deeply; partly in con- 
scious pride at the flattery, partly in the heart- 
felt shame at its inappropriateness to himself; 
and even the sincerity with which his comrades 
drank his health, could not drow T n the self-re- 
proaches he was suffering under. 

“ Thou art an only son, too, Dalton !” said 
another. “ What favors fortune will shower 
upon one happy fellow ! Here am I, one of 
seven ; and, although my father is a count of 
the Empire, four of us have to take service in 
the infantry.” 

“ What of that ?” said a dark-complexioned 
fellow, whose high cheek bones and sharp under- 
jaw bespoke a Pole. “I am a second-lieuten- 


said another. 

“And we’ll pledge those fair sisters of thine 
— and they’re both handsome, I’ll be sworn — 
in the best Tokay Palfi’s vineyard can yield.” 

“ My regiment will be in garrison, in the 
Leopoldstadt, next month, and I’ll remind thee 
of this pledge.” 

“And we shall be at Lintz,” broke in an- 
other; “and thou mayst reckon on me, if I have 
to suffer an arrest for it afterward.” 

“ So it is agreed, Dalton, we are thy guests. 
For what day shall it be?” 

“ Ay, let us name the day,” cried several to- 
gether. 

“ When he is named an officer,” said Walstein, 
“that will be time enough.” 

“ Nay, nay — the day month after he arrives 
at Vienna,” cried the Bohemian. “I have given 
three breakfasts and five suppers on the occasion 
of my promotion, and the promotion has never 
come yet.” 

“ The day month after I arrive, then, be it,” 
said Dalton. “ We meet at — where is it?” 

“ The ‘ Schwan,’ lad — the first restaurant of 
Europe. Let men talk as they will of the 


ant in the regiment that my grandfather raised Cadran Bleu and the Trois Frcres, I’d back 
and equipped at his own cost ; and if I were to j Hetzinger’s cook against the world ; and as for 
lose a thousand florins at ‘ Lansquenet’ to-mor- 1 wine, he has Steinkammer at thirty florins the 
row, I’d be broke, like the meanest 
the corps.” 

“ It’s better to be a rich Englander,” cried 


one. 


“ And with a field-marshal for a granduncle !” 
chimed in another 


Bursch’ in flask ! And we’ll drink it, too — eh, Dalton ? 

| and we’ll give a 4 Hoch Lebe’ to that old grand- 
father or granduncle of thine. We’ll add ten 
years to his life.” 

“A poor service to Dalton!” said another; 
“but here comes Walstein’s horses, and now 


“And a ‘Maria Theresa’ to ask for thy grade for a last glass together before we part.” 


as officer,” said a third. 


The parting seemed, indeed, to be “ sweet 


“It’s a jolly service to all of us,” said a young sorrow,” for each leave-taking led to one flask 
Bohemian, who, although but a cadet, was a more, friendship itself appearing to make won- 
prince, with a princely fortune. “ 1 ask for drous progress as the bottle went round. The 
nothin" but a war to make it the best life third call of the postillion’s bugle — a summons 
goin".” that even German loyalty could scarcely have 

‘A war with whom?” cried several together, courago to resist — at last cut short the festivi- 


120 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ties, and Frank once more found himself in the 
caleche, where at least a dozen hands contested 
for the last shake of his, and a shower of good 
wishes mingled with the sounds of the crashing 
wheels. 

“Glorious fellows!” cried Dalton, in an ec- 
stasy of delight ; “ such comrades are like 
brothers.” 

Walstein smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm, and 
lighted his meerschaum in silence ; and thus 
they journeyed, each too full of his own thoughts 
to care for converse. It was not at such a 
moment that Dalton could give way to dark or 
serious reflections ; the blandishments and ca- 
resses of his new friends were too powerful to 
admit of any rivalry in his mind ; and even when 
he did revert to thoughts of home, it w T as to 
picture to himself his father’s pride at seeing 
him in the society of these high-born youths ; of 
Kate’s delight at the degree of notice he at- 
tracted ; and even Nelly — poor Nelly ! — he fan- 
cied yielding a gentle, half-reluctant assent to a 
companionship which, if costly and expensive, 
was sure to be honorable and high-minded. 

“ What would Hanserl say, too,” thought he, 
“if he saw me seated at the table with those 
whose high-sounding names are the pride of 
Austrian chivalry — the Thuns, the Lichtensteins, 
the Schwartenschilds, and the Walsteins — fam- 
ilies old as the Hapsburgs themselves ! Little 
Hanserl, to whom these glorious families were 
the great lights of history — oh, if he could have 
set eyes on me this last evening ! when, with 
arms around my neck, they called me comrade !” 
From this he wandered on to thoughts of his 

Z5. ^ 

uncle, investing the old field -marshal with 
every noble and soldierlike attribute, and, above 
all, fancying him as overflowing with affection 
and kindness. What hosts of questions did he 
ask about his father and his sisters — how often 
had he to repeat their names, and paint their 
resemblances, going over the most minute de- 
tails of family history, and recounting the sim- 
plest incidents of their daily life, for “Uncle 
Stephen would know all.” 

In such pleasant fancies he fell fast asleep, 
even in his dreams to carry out those imaginings 
that, waking, had no control of reason. 

Frank Dalton was awoke from a sound sleep 
and a pleasant dream of home by the hoarse 
voice of a mounted dragoon, ordering the postillion 
to halt; and, on looking out, he saw that they 
were drawn up close beside the angle of the 
great wooden bridge that crosses the Danube, 
under the walls of Vienna. The whole scene 
was one of wonderment and surprise to him. 
At his feet, as it were, rolled the stream of the 
rapid Danube ; its impetuous flood splashing and 
foaming amid the fragments of ice, floated down 
from the mountain regions, and which every 
moment were shivered against the stone break- 
waters with the crash of thunder. Beyond the 
river, rose the fortified walls of the city, covered 
with a dense multitude of people, eager specta- 
tors of a grand military display, which, with all 
the pomp of war, poured forth beneath the dark 


archw’ay of the entrance-gate, and, winding over 
the “glacis,” crossed the bridge and held on its 
course toward the Prater. 

It was a clear, bright day of winter ; the blue 
sky almost cloudless, and the sharp outline of 
every object stood out, crisp and well-defined, 
in the thin atmosphere. Nothing could be more 
favorable for the effect of such a spectacle. The 
bright weapons glanced and glittered like sil- 
ver — the gay trappings and brilliant uniforms 
showed in all their splendor — the scarlet Lan- 
cers, the blue-clad Hussars, the Cuirassiers, 
with their towering helmets, vied with each 
other in soldierlike bearing ; while the dense 
mass of infantry moved along with a surging, 
waving motion — like a vast sea heaving with a 
ground-swell. It was an army complete in 
every detail — for even to the “ ambulances” for 
the w’ounded, every thing was there ! 

“A review by the emperor !” said Walstein ; 
“and see, there comes his staff.” And he 
pointed to a group of horsemen, whose waving 
plumes and floating dolmans were seen at a lit- 
tle distance off in the plain. 

“Oh, let us follow them !” cried Frank, en- 
thusiastically. “ Such a glorious sight as this 
I never even imagined.” 

“ You’ll see enough — perhaps too many 
such !” said the count, languidly. “ It’s a 
favorite pastime of our old general’s to drag us 
out of quarters in the very depth of winter, and 
spend a day in the snow of the Prater.” 

“ Who could have a thought for weather, or 
hardship, when engaged in such a scene?” said 
Frank. 

“ So, evidently, think those worthy field- 
marshals and generals of division, who, well 
mounted, and swathed in furs, canter down to 
the ground, an hour after we have reached it, 
and ride back again w T hen they have ‘ taken the 
salute,’ leaving us to plod wearily home, through 
w T et roads and sloppy streets, to our cold bar- 
racks. But just the reverse is the opinion of 
those poor fellows yonder, with blue faces and 
frost-bitten knuckles, and who have neither pride 
in this display, nor sympathy with the success 
of w T hat is called ‘a fine manoeuvre.’ ” 

F rank shook his head distrustfully. He wished 
not to credit the opinion, but knew not how to 
refute it, and was silent. 

“ That is the c Franz Carl,’ Dalton,” said 
Walstein, pointing to a column of infantry, who, 
in their dark gray overcoats, seemed a sad- 
looking, gloomy mass. “ They’ve got the best 
band and the most savage colonel in the ser- 
vice.” ' 

Frank gazed at the regiment with a strange 
sensation of awe and fear. 

“There lies my destiny !” thought he. “Who 
knows what friendships or enmities await me, 
yonder? What hearts in that dark mass will 
beat responsively "with my own — what sources 
of sorrow or affliction may I meet with among 
them !” 

“ I wish thou hadst a better regiment, Dal- 
ton,” said Walstein. 


127 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ How a better ? Is it not a brave and dis- 1 
tinguished corps?” 

Brave enough,” said the other, laughing ; 
‘and as lor distinction, an archduke owns and 
commands it. But that is not what I mean. 
The regiment is a poor one ; the officers are 
from Upper Austria, with little or no fortune — 
fellows who dine for a zwanziger, play dominoes 
for two kreutzers, waltz at the wine-gardens, 
and fight duels with sabres.” 

Frank laughed at the description; but his 
laugh had more of gloom than mirth about it, 
for he felt at every moment the false position he 
occupied, and how inextricably complicated his 
circumstances were becoming. Every allusion 
to others, showed him in what light he was 
himself regarded. Was this deception honor- 
able? — was it possible to continue it?” were 
the questions that would obtrude upon him, and 
for which no ingenuity could find answer. 

“ There’s the corps for you, Dalton,” said 
Walstein, drawing his attention to the 11 Hun- 
garian Guard,” all glittering with gold em- 
broidery, and mounted upon the most beautiful 
white chargers — at once the most perfect riders 
and the best mounted cavalry in Europe. “In 
that regiment you are certain of being quartered 
either here or in Prague. Those laced jackets 
are too costly wear to send down to the Banat, 
or among the wilds of Wallachia. Besides, the 
empress likes to see these gaudy fellows on 
their ‘ Schimmels’ beneath the palace windows. 
Your uncle will, of course, grumble a little 
about the cost ; perhaps your father, too, will 
look a little grave when he hears of six thou- 
sand florins for a ‘ Dolman,’ and four for a 
‘ Schabrach while ten or twelve horses — the 
very least you could keep — would scarcely 
sound like a moderate stable. Still, depend 
upon it, the corps is as good for service as it is 
costly, and Creptowitz, their colonel, is a true 
Hussar.” 

For a moment Dalton hesitated whether he 
should not make the honest avowal of his nar- 
row fortune, and tell that he had no pretension 
to such habits of cost and expense ; but shame 
■was too powerful to admit the acknowledgment. 
He had already gone too far to retract, and he 
felt that any candor now would be the confes- 
sion of a cheat. If these were harassing and 
torturing reflections, one flickering ray of hope 
still glimmered through the gloom; and this 
was, what he might expect from his uncle. 
“If he be really rich, as they say,” thought 
Frank ; “ if his favor be so great with the em- 
peror, even such a career as this may not be 
above my prospects.” As he revolved these 
thoughts, he sat with his head buried between 
his hands, forgetful of where he was and all 

around him. - s 

“ You’re losing every thing, Dalton,” said 
Walstein. “See, there go the ‘Kaiser Jagers,’ 
with their bugles, the finest in the service ; and 
yonder are the Lichtenstein ‘ Light Horse,’ 
mounted on thorough-bred cattle ; and there, 
to the left, those savage-looking fellows with 


long beards, they are the ‘ Croat Grenadiers.’ 
But here comes the emperor !” And, as he 
spoke, one deafening cheer burst forth along 
the line, and was echoed back from the walls 
of Vienna; while every band struck up the 
national hymn of Austria, and the proud notes 
of “ God preserve the Emperor !” floated 
through the air. 

A brilliant staff of generals of every arm of 
the service accompanied “ the Kaiser and 
Walstein ran quickly over the names of these, 
many of whom were among the first nobility 
of the empire. Some, were the war-worn 
veterans of the great campaigns; some, the 
young hopes of Austrian chivalry ; but, con- 
spicuous above all, was a figure, whose stature, 
as well as the singularity of his uniform, at- 
tracted Frank’s notice. He was a very tall old 
man, dressed in a uniform of purple velvet 
slashed with gold, and actually covered with 
the crosses and decorations of various orders. 
His cap was a tall chako of red-brown fur, 
from which a long straight scarlet plume float- 
ed, and beneath which his gray hair was fast- 
ened in a queue, that hung half-way down his 
back. Yellow buskins, ornamented with mas- 
sive gold spurs, completed a costume which 
seemed almost a compromise between the pres- 
ent and some bygone age. 

The figure of the wearer, too, suited well 
this impression. There was a stern rigidity of 
look as he sat still and motionless in his saddle, 
which relaxed into the polished urbanity of an 
old courtier as often as the emperor addressed 
him. When bowing to the mane of his charger, 
he seemed the very type of courtesy ; while, as 
he retired his horse, there was all the address 
and ease of a practiced rider. 

“ There, to the left of Walmoden, on the 
powerful black horse, do you see that hand- 
some old man in the purple tunic ?” asked 
Walstein. 

“ I have been watching him for several min- 
utes back,” replied Frank. “ What a singular 
uniform !” 

“ Yes. It was the dress of the Artillery of 
the Imperial Guards, in the days of Wagram 
and Lobau ; and he is permitted to retain it, by 
a special leave of the emperor — a favor he only 
avails himself of on occasions like the pres- 
ent.” 

“What a mass of orders he wears !” 

“ He has all that the empire can bestow 
from the ‘ Iron Cross,’ to the 1 Maria Theresa.’ 
He has the ‘Legion of Honor,’ too, sent him 
by Napoleon himself! It was that officer who, 
at Elchingen, rode up to the head of a French 
column, and told them that the wagons they 
were pursuing were the ‘ammunition of the 
rear-guard !’ ‘If you advance,’ said he, ‘we’ll 
fire them, and blow you and ourselves to atoms !’ 
The coolness and heroism of the daring were 
well acknowledged by a brave enemy. The 
French halted, and our train proceeded on its 
way. Mayhap you have heard the anecdote 
before 


128 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“Never,” said Frank, still gazing with ad- 
miration 'at the old soldier. 

“ Then I may as well tell you that he is the 
Count Dalton von Auersberg,” said Walstein, 
lying back to enjoy the youth’s amazement. 

“ What ! Uncle Stephen ? Is that our un- 
cle ?” burst out Trank, in delight. 

“ I wish I could call him ‘ ours,’ with all my 
heart,” said Walstein, laughing. “Any man 
might well be proud of such a relative.” 

But Frank never heard nor heeded the re- 
mark > his whole soul was wrapped up in the 
contemplation of the old field-marshal, on whom 
he gazed as a devotee might have done upon 
his saint. 

. - • / v. • i- v 


* rJ 


“He’s like my father,” muttered Frank, half 
aloud; “but haughtier-looking, and older. A 
true Dalton in every feature ! How I long to 
speak to him— to tell him who I am.” 

“Not here, though — not here!” said Wal- 
stein, laying his hapd on the youth’s arm, for 
he almost feared lest he should give way to the 
sudden impulse. ,“ Were you even the colonel of 
your regimeht, you could not approach him now.” 

Frank stared with some surprise at a remark 
which seemed to treat- so slightingly the ties of 
blood and kindred ; while Walstein, by no means 
easy on the score of his companion’s prudence, 
gave the word to the postillion to drive on j and 
they entered the city of Vienna. 

. A •; ' ' '• VV 

\ ' 4 ; , , .. 



. v 



v. 


w/V.* 


v 


CHAPTER XXX. 

V • •' % ■ \ *•,*, 4 

THE THREAT OF “ A SLIGHT EMBARRASSMENT.” 


The Mazzarini Palace was now a proverb 
for all that was dissipated and extravagant 
throughout Florence, and in proportion as the 
society which frequented it were select and few 
in number, the more absurd were the rumors 
that went abroad of its dissipations and ex- 
cesses. In default of a real good tangible 
scandal, the world invented a thousand shad- 
owy little slanders, that, if not as deadly to 
reputation, at once, were just as certain to kill 
character, in the long run. 

Sir Stafford’s gout, of which he was confined 
to his bed or a sofa, was pronounced the linger- 
ing agonies of a broken heart. u My Lady’s” 
late dinners were orgies where every licentious- 
ness held sway. George was a reckless gam- 
bler, who had already jeopardized all the wealth 
of his family; and, as for Kate, she was at the 
mercy of that amiable temperament of the 
human mind, which always believes the worst, 
and as constantly draws the darkest inference 
from its belief. 

Now, Sir Stafford was very gouty, very irri- 
table, and very unhappy to boot about a num- 
ber of matters, which, however deeply interest- 
ing to himself, should have had no concern for 
the world. My lady did dine at eleven o’clock 
at night, and the company was assuredly not 
that from which a discriminating public would 
have selected archbishops, or even minor canons, 
consisting for the most part of that class of which 
we have already made mention in a former 
chapter, with now and then some passer-through 
of rank, or some stray diplomate on his way to 
or from his post. George Onslow was a large 
loser at play, but without having recourse to 
those stratagems for payment which were so 
generally ascribed to him. While Kate — poor 
Kate — was neither better nor worse than the 
reader has hitherto known her. 

We do not in this admission seek to conceal 
the fact that she was very different from what 
first we saw her. Society had taught her tact, 
grace, and elegance of deportmbnt. Admiration 
had rendered her — yes, we say it advisedly — ad- 
miration had rendered her very attractive, draw- I 
ing forth a thousand resources of fascination, 
and a thousand arts of pleasing, that often wither j 
and die in the cold chill of neglect. The most [ 
fastidious critic could not have detected a fault j 
in her manner: an ill-natured one might have 
objected to what seemed an excess of graceful- ! 
I 


ness; but even this was relieved by a youthful 
freshness and buoyancy of temperament — the 
last — the very last remnant of her former self. 

She was the belle of Florence. Her sover- 
eignty admitted of nothing like a rival. Whether 
she drove, or rode, or danced, or walked, the 
same admiring throng surrounded her; some, 
sincere in all their admiration; others, but fol- 
lowing the lead which fashion took; and others, 
again, watchful observers of a manner in which 
they fancied they could trace the settled plan 
of a daring and ambitious character. Vanity 
had been the foible of her childish years; it 
was now the vice of her womanhood. Lady 
Hester ministered to this failing in a hundred 
ways. Liking Kate as well as it was possible 
for her to like any thing, she took an intense 
pleasure in all the admiration she met with. 

As an actor is said to “ create the part” 
which is written for him, when he impresses 
the personation with Iraits pecdliarly his own, 
so did she fancy that Kate was but a reflected 
image of all her own graces and fascinations ; and 
probably the proudest days of her own triumphs 
never yielded more enjoyment than she now felt 
in the flattering praises bestowed upon Kata 
Dalton. 

There were good-natured people who said 
that Lady Hester’s admiration had another 
source, and that, as a somewhat passe beauty, 
she knew the full value of a younger and hand- 
somer woman in attracting to her circle and 
society all that was distinguished by rank or 
station. We are not prepared to deny some 
force to this argument, but assuredly it had 
less weight than other reasons. Lady Hester’s- 
own claims, besides, were higher than these 
detractors admitted. She was, although not 
very young, still very handsome, her rank and 
wealth both considerable, and her manner the 
perfection of that school to which she belonged. 
If her affection for Kate was only another form 
of selfishness, it was not the less strong on that 
account. She was the confidante of her sor- 
rows — by no means a sinecure office; the chief 
counselor in all her plans; she was the lay- 
figure on which she experimented a hundred 
devices in costume and toilet; and, lastly — 
greatest charm of all — she was a dependant. 
Not, indeed, that Kate herself so understood 
her position; pride of family, the Dalton herit- 
age, was too powerful in her to admit of this. 


130 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Deeply, sincerely grateful she was for all Lady 
Hester’s kindness; her affection she returned 
tenfold ; but no sense of inferiority mingled with 
this feeling, save that which arose from her 
own devoted admiration of her friend. 

The homage amid which she passed her life, 
the unceasing flow of flatteries around her, 
were not very likely to undeceive on this point. 
A more respectful devotion could not have 
waited on a princess of the royal house. The 
great Midchikoff gave balls in her honor. The 
Arab horses of Treviliani were all placed at 
her disposal. The various visits to objects of 
euriosity or taste were arranged for her pleas- 
ure, and nothing omitted that could tend to 
stimulate her vanity and heighten her self- 
esteem. 

The utmost we can say for her, all this while, 
is, that if she was carried away by the excite- 
ment of this adulation, yet that, in heart, she 
was as little corrupted as was well possible. 
She could not be other than enamored of a life 
so unchanging in its happiness, nor could she 
disconnect the enjoyments around her from the 
/possession of great wealth. She thought of 
what she had been a few months back : the 
“ same Kate Dalton,” braving the snows of a 
dark German winter, with threadbare cloak 
and peasant “ sabots an object of admiration 
to none except to poor Hanserl, perhaps ! And 
yet now, unchanged, unaltered, save in what 
gold can change, how different was her posi- 
tion. It had been well if her love of splendor 
had stopped here. It went further, however, 
and inspired a perfect dread of humble fortune. 

Over and over again did she hear disparaging 
remarks bestowed upon the striving efforts of 
K respectable poverty,” its contrivances derided, 
its little straits held up to ridicule. In dress, 
equipage, or household, whatever it did, was 
certain to be absurd ; and yet all of these peo- 
ple, so laughed at and scorned, were in the en- 
joyment of means far above her own father’s ! 

What a false position was this ! How full 
of deceit must she become to sustain it ! She 
invoked all her sophistry to assure herself that 
their condition was a mere passing state; that 
at some future — perhaps not even a remote one 
— they should have “ their own again ;” and 
that, as in family and descent, they were the 
equals of any, so they were not inferior in all 
the just claims to consideration and respect. 
She tried to think of her father and Nelly mov- 
ing in the circles she now lived in ; but, even 
alone, and in the secrecy of her own thoughts, 
her cheek became scarlet with shame, and she 
actually shuddered at the very notion. And 
even Frank, her once ideal of all that was grace- 
ful and noble-looking, how would he pass 
muster beside these essenced “ fashionables” 
who now surrounded her ! She endeavored to 
console herself by thinking that her father would 
have despised the lounging, unmanly lives they 
led; that Ellen would have retired in bashful 
modesty from a society whose tone of freedom 
and license would have shocked her; and that 


Frank would have found no companionship in a 
class, whose pleasures lay only in dissipation : 
and 3 r et, all her casuistry could nor reassure 
her. The fascinations amid which she lived 
were stronger than her reason. 

She became first aware of the great change 
in herself, on recognizing how differently a let* 
ter from home affected her, to what it had done 
some months before. At first, she would have 
hastened to her room, and locked the door, in 
an ecstasy of delight to be alone with dearest 
Nelly-^to commune with her own sweet sister 
in secret — to hang on every line, every word 
with delight; fancying herself once more with 
arms clasped around her, or bending down be- 
side her cheek as she leaned over her work- 
table. How every little detail would move 
her; how every allusion would bring up home 
before her — the snug little chamber of an even- 
ing, as the bright fire glowed on the hearth, 
and Nelly brought out her tools for modeling, 
while Hanserl was searching for some passage, 
a line, or a description that Nelly wanted ; and 
then the little discussions that would ensue, as 
to the shape of some weapon, or the fashion of 
some costume of a past age, so often broken in 
upon by her father, whose drolleries would sef 
them laughing ! 

With what interest, too, she would follow 
each trifling occurrence of their daily life ; ths 
progress Nelly was making in her last group; 
its difficulties how would she ponder over, and 
how to meet them ! With what eager curiosity 
would she read the commonest details of house 
hold, the dreary burden of a winter’s tale ! and 
how her heart bounded to hear of Frank — the 
soldier — although all the tidings were, that he 
was with his regiment, but “ spoke little of him- 
self or the service.” 

Now, however, the glow of delight which a 
letter used to bring up, was changed for a deep 
blush of anxiety and shame — anxiety, she knew 
not wherefore or how — of shame, because Nelly’s 
writing on the address was quaint and old-fash- 
ioned; while the paper and the seal bespoke 
the very lowliest acquaintance with epistolary 
elegance. The letter she used to grasp at with 
a high-beating heart, she now clutched with 
greater eagerness, but in terror lest others 
should see and mark its vulgar exterior ! 

How differently, too, did the contents affect 
her : so long as they referred to herself, in 
her own latest narratives of her life, she read 
with avidity and pleasure. Nelly’s inno- 
cent wonderment was a very delightful sen- 
sation ; her affectionate particiption in her hap- 
piness was all grateful; even her gentle warn- 
ings against the seductions of such a career 
were not unpleasing ; but the subject changed 
to home, and what an alteration came over her 
spirit ! How dark and dismal became the pic- 
ture — how poverty-stricken each incident and 
event — what littleness in every detail — how 
insignificant the occupations that interested 
them ! 

How great the surprise she felt, at their in- 


131 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


terest in such trifles ! how astonished that their 
hopes and fears, their wishes or their dreads, 
could take so mean a form ! This came with 1 
peculiar force before her, from a paragraph ! 
that closed Nelly’s last letter, and which ran I 
thus : 

“ Think of our happiness, dearest Kate ! We 
have just seen one who saw you lately — one of 
your Florence acquaintances ; and I believe I 
might go further, and say friends, for the terms 
in which he spoke of you evinced sincere and 
true regard. It was so kind of him to find us 
out, just to come and tell us about you ; in- 
deed, he remained a day here for no other pur- 
pose, since his diplomatic duties were urging 
him to England with speed.” 

When Kate had read thus far, she stopped ; 
her face and neck crimson with shame, and her 
heart beating almost audibly. With lightning 
rapidity she ran over to herself three or four 
names of ministers and envoys who had lately 
left Florence, trembling to think it might be the 
gorgeous Russian, Naradskoi, the princely Nea- 
politan, Camporese, or the haughty Spaniard, 
Don Hernandez Orloes, who had visited their 
humble interior. What a humiliation for her, if 
she were ever to see them again ! Home, at 
that instant, presented itself before her but as 
the -witness of her shame : how sordid and mis- 
erable did its poverty appear, and with what 
vulgarity associated ! Her poor old father, 
around whose neck, but a moment before, she 
would have hung with rapture, she shrunk from 
with very terror : his dress, his look, his accent 
— every word he spoke, every allusion he made, 
were tortures to her; and Nelly — even Nelly 
— how she blushed to fancy her humble guise, 
and poor exterior ; the little dress of colored 
wool, from the pockets of which her carving 
tools appeared ; and then how the scene rose 
before her ! her father producing Nelly’s last 
work, some little group in clay or wood. She 
pictured to herself his pride — her sister’s bash- 
fulness — the stranger’s pretended admiration ! 
Till now, these emotions had never seemed a 
counterfeit. Oh ! how she shuddered as her 
thoughts took more and more the colors of real- 
ity, and the room itself, and its poverty-struck 
furniture, rose before her ! At last she read on : 

“ His visit was of course a great honor, and 
probably, had he come on any other errand but 
to speak of you, we should have been half over- 
whelmed with the condescension ; but in very 
truth, Kate, I quite forgot all his greatness and 
his grandeur, and lost sight of his ever holding 
any higher mission than to bring news of my 
dearest sister. Papa, of course, asked him to 
dinner. I believe he would have invited the 
Czar himself under like circumstances ; but, for- 
tunately for us, for him, and, perhaps, for you, 
too, he was too deaf to hear the request, and 
politely answered that he would send my letter 
to you, with pleasure, under his own diplomatic 
seal; and so we parted. I ought to add, that 
Mr. Foglass intends speedily to return to Flor- 
ence.” . . ' ; . 


Three or four times did Kate read this name 
over before she could persuade herself that she 
| had it aright. Foglass ! she had never even 
I heard of him. The name was remarkable 
enough to remember, as belonging to a person 
of diplomatic rank, and yet it was quite new to 
her. She turned to Lady Hester’s invitation- 
book, but no such name was there. What form 
her doubts might have taken there is no know- 
ing, when Mr. Albert Jekyl was seen to cross 
the court-yard, and enter the house. 

Knowing that if any could, he would be the 
person to resolve the difficulty, she hastened 
down stairs to meet him. 

“ Mr. Jekyl,” cried she, hurriedly, “ is there 
such a man as Mr. Foglass in this breathing 
world of ours ?” 

“ Of course there is, Miss Dalton,” said he, 
smiling at her eagerness. 

“A minister or an envoy at some court?” 

“Not that I have ever heard,” repeated he, 
with a more dubious smile. 

“Well, a secretary of embassy, perhaps? a 
something of that kind ? Who is he ? what is 
he? where does he belong to?” 

“ You mean Bob, Miss Dalton,” said he, at 
once puffing out his cheeks and running his 
hand through his hair, till it became a very 
good resemblance of the ex-consul’s wig, while, 
by a slight adjustment of his waistcoat, he imi- 
tated the pretentious presence of the mock roy- 
alty. “You mean Bob, madam,” said he, mim- 
icking his measured intonation and pompous 
tone — “ Old Fogey, as Mathews always called 
him. Mathews and I and Townsend were al- 
ways together — dined at Greenwich every Sun- 
day regularly. What nights they were ! Flows 
of reason, and feasts of — eh ? yes, that’s what 
they were.” 

“ I must remind you that I never saw him,” 
said she, laughing; “though I’m certain, if I 
should hereafter, it will not be very hard to 
recognize him. Now, who is he ?” 

“ He himself says, a grandson of George the 
Fourth. Less interested biographers call him 
a son of Foglass and Crattles, who, I believe, 
were not even coachmakers to royalty. He was 
a consul at Ezmeroum, or some such place. At 
least, they showed him the name on a map, and 
bade him find it out; but he found out some- 
thing more, it seems — that there was neither 
pay nor perquisites — neither passports nor pec- 
ulations ; and he has brought back his wisdom 
once again to besiege the Foreign Office. But 
how do you happen to ask about him ?” 

“ Some of my friends met him in Germany,” 
said she, hesitatingly. She might have blushed, 
had Jekyl looked at her ; but he knew better, 
and took pains to bestow his glances in another 
direction. 

“ It would be kind to tell them that the man 
is a most prying, inquisitive sort of creature, 
who, if he only had the sense of hearing, would 
be as mischievous as Purvis.” 

“ I fancy they will see but little of him,” said 
she, with a saucy toss of the head. “ He made 


132 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


their acquaintance by affecting to know me. 
I’m sure I’ve no recollection of having ever 
seen him.' 1 ' 1 

“ Of course you never knew him, Miss Dal- 
ton?” replied he, with a subdued horror in his 
voice as he spoke. 

“ A letter for you, mademoiselle,” said the 
servant to Kate ; “ and the man waits for an 
answer.” 

Kate broke the seal with some trepidation. 
She had no correspondents nearer than her home, 
and wondered what this might mean. It was 
in a strange commotion of spirit that she read 
the following lines : 

“ Mrs. Montague Ricketts presents her re- 
spectful compliments to Miss Dalton, and begs 
to know at what hour to-day Mrs. M. R. may 
wait upon Miss D., to present a letter which has 
been committed to Mrs. R.’s hands for personal 
delivery. It may secure an earlier hour of audi- 
ence if Mrs. R. mentions that the precious doc- 
ument is from Miss D.’s father.” 

What could this possibly mean ? It was but 
that very same day the post brought her a let- 
ter from Nelly. Why had not her father said 
what he wished to say, in that ? What need 
of this roundabout, mysterious mode of commu- 
nicating ? 

The sight of the servant still in waiting for 
the answer recalled her from these cross-ques- 
tionings, and she hurried away to consult Lady 
Hester about the reply. 

“It’s very shocking, my dear child,” said 
she, as she listened to the explanation. “ The 
Ricketts, they tell me, is something too dread- 
ful; and we have escaped her hitherto. You 
couldn’t be ill, could you?” 

“ But the letter?” said Kate, half smiling, 
half provoked. 

“ Oh, to be sure — the letter ! But Buccel- 
lini, you know, might take the letter, and leave 
it, with unbroken seal, near you ; you could read 
it just as well. I’m sure I read every thing Sir 
Stafford said in his without ever opening it. 
You saw that yourself, Kate, or, with your 
skepticism, I suppose, you’d not believe it, for 
you are very skeptical ; it is your fault of faults, 
my dear. D’Esmonde almost shed tears about 
it, the other day. He told me that you actually 
refused to believe in the Madonna della Torre, 
although he showed vou the vial with the tears 
in it !” 

“I only said that I had not seen the Virgin 
shed them,” said Kate. 

“True, child; but you saw the tears! and 
you heard D’Esmonde remark, that when you 
saw the garden of a morning, all soaked with 
wet, the trees and flowers dripping, you never 
doubted that it had rained during the night, al- 


though you might not have been awake to hear 
or see it.” ' 

Kate was silent; not that sne was unpre- 
pared with an answer, but dreaded to prolong a 
discussion so remote from the object of her visit. 

“ Now, Protestant that I am,” said Lady Hes- 
ter, with the triumphant tone of one who rose 
above all the slavery of prejudice — “Protestant 
that I am, I believe in the ‘ Torre.’ The real 
distinction to make is, between what is above, 
and what is contrary to reason, Kate. Do you 
understand me, child ?” 

“ I’m sure Mrs. Ricketts’ visit must be both,” 
said Kate, adroitly bringing back the original 
theme. - V 

“ Very true ; and I was forgetting the dear 
woman altogether. I suppose you must receive 
her, Kate; there’s no help for it! Say three 
o’clock, and I’ll sit in the small drawing-room, 
and, with the gallery and the library between 
us, I shall not hear her dreadful voice.” 

“ Has she such ?” asked Kate, innocently. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know,” said Lady Hester, 
pettishly ; “ but, of course, she has ! Those 
dreadful people always have ! Make the visit 
as brief as possible, Kate. Let it not be a pre- 
text for any thing after. Use your eye-glass on 
every occasion, so that you can be short-sighted 
enough never to know her again. I’ve seen you 
very supercilious at times, child — it is precisely 
the manner for this interview. It was really 
very wrong of your papa to write in this fash- 
ion ; or your sister, or whoever it was. Nobody 
thinks of any thing but the post, nowadays. 
Pray tell them so ; say it makes me quite nerv- 
ous ; you see I am nervous to-day. There, 
there ! I don’t want to fret you, child — but 
every thing has gone wrong to-day. Midchikoff 
has given away his box, and I have promised 
mine to the Lucchesini ; and that blonde flounce 
is much too narrow, so Celestine tells me ; but 
I’m sure she has cut a piece off it to make a 
‘berthe’ for herself. And then the flowers are 
positively odious. They are crimson, instead of 
cherry-color, although I told Jekyl twice over 
that they ought to be the very tint of Lady Mel- 
gund’s nose! There, now, good-by. Remem- 
ber all I’ve been saying, and don’t forget that 
this is a ‘Giorno infelice,’ and every thing one 
does will prove unlucky. I hope D’Esmondo 
will not come to-day. I’m really not equal to 
controversy this morning. I should like to seo 
Buceellini, however, and have a globule of the 
Elysian essence. By-by; do think better about 
the ‘ Madonna della Torre,’ and get rid of that 
odious Ricketts’ affair as speedily as may be.” 

With these injunctions, Kate withdrew to in. 
dite her reply to Mrs. Ricketts, appointing three 
o'clock on that same afternoon for a visit, which 
she assuredly looked forward to with more of 
curiosity than pleasure. 


I 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A CONVIVIAL EVENING. 


It is not necessary that the reader should 
participate in Kate Dalton’s mystification re- 
garding her father’s letter, that document being 
simply a piece of Ricketts’ strategy, and ob- 
tained to secure an admission to the Mazzarini 
Palace, which, notwithstanding Lord Norwood’s 
assurances, still remained an impregnable for- 
tress to all her assaults. 

Foglass was then commissioned to induce 
Mr. Dalton to write something — any thing to 
his daughter, to be transmitted under the Em- 
bassy seal — a magnificent mode of conveyance, 
which was reason enough to call into exercise 
those powers of penmanship which since he had 
ceased to issue promissory notes, had lain in the 
very rustiest state of disuse. The command to 
obtain this credential reached Foglass just as 
he was about to start from Baden ; but being 
desirous, for various little social reasons, to con- 
ciliate the Ricketts’ esteem, he at once altered 
his arrangements, and feigning a sudden attack 
of gout — a right royal malady — he took himself 
to bed, and sent a few lines to Dalton, detailing 
his misfortune and entreating a visit. 

Never backward in the cause of good-nature, 
poor Dalton sallied forth at night, and notwith- 
standing the cutting blasts of a north wind, and 
the sharp driftings of the half-frozen snow, held 
on his way to the “ Russie,” where, in a very 
humble chamber for so distinguished a guest, 
lay Mr. Foglass in the mock agonies of gout. 

“ How devilish kind of you — how very con- 
siderate !” said Foglass, as he gave one finger 
of his hand to shake. “ So like poor Townsend, 
this — Lord Tom we used to call him. Not 
wet, though, I hope?” 

“ And if I was, it wouldn’t be the first time. 
But how' are you, yourself — w'here is the pain?” 

“You must speak louder; there’s a kind of 
damper on the voice in this room.” 

“ Where’s the pain ?” screamed Dalton. 

“ There — there — no need to roar,” whispered 
the other. “ The pain is here — over the stomach, 
round the ribs, the back — every where.” 

“Ah, I know it well,” said Dalton, with a 
Wry contortion of the face. “ It’s the devil en- 
tirely when it gets under the short ribs ! It 
begins like a rat nibbling you, as it might be, 
biting aw T ay little bits, with now and then a big 
slice that makes you sing out; and then the 
teeth begin to get hot, and he bites quicker, 
and tears you besides — sure I know it this many 
a year.” 


To this description, of which Foglass heard 
nothing, he bowed blandly, and made a sign to 
Dalton to be seated near him. 

“ You’d like a little wine and water, I’m 
sure,” said he, with the air of a man, who rare- 
ly figured as a host, and liked it more rarely 
, still. 

“ Spirits and water — boiling water — with 
sugar and a squeeze of lemon, is what I’ll 
take; and see now, you’d not be w r orse of the 
same yourself. I’ve an elegant receipt for the 
gout, but w'hether it’s sulphur or saltpetre’s in 
it, I don t well remember ; but. I know you mix 
it with treacle, ash-bark, and earth-w T orms, the 
yolk of four eggs, and a little rosemary. But 
as you mightn’t like the taste of it at first, we’ll 
just begin with a jug of punch.” 

The waiter had by this time made his ap- 
pearance, and the order being communicated by 
a most expressive pantomime of drinking, and 
the few solitary words of German Dalton pos- 
sessed, the room assumed a look of sociality to 
which Dalton’s presence very mainly contributed. 

In the confidence such a moment of secrecy 
suggested, Foglass produced an ear-trumpet — 
a mark of the most unbounded good faith on hjs 
part, and which, had Dalton known him better, 
he would have construed into a proof of implicit 
reliance on his honor. 

“I’ve been many years at Constantinople,” 
said he, adjusting the instrument, “ and the 
confounded muezzin has made me a little deaf. 
It’s an everlasting calling to prayers, day and 
night, there.” 

“ How they ever expect to get to heaven by 
tormentin’ and teasin’, is more than I know,” 
said Dalton.” 

“They’re Mohammedans!” said Foglass, 
with the air of a man uttering a profound sen- 
timent. - 

“ Ay, to be sure,” observed Dalton ; “ it’s 
not like Christians. Now, is it true, they tell 
me they never eat salt meat?” 

“ Never !” 

“ Think of that ! Not a bit of corned beef, 
nor as much as a leg of pork — ” 

“ Wouldn’t hear of it,” interrupted Foglass. 
“ Wine, too, is forbidden.” 

“ And punch ?” 

“ Of course, punch also. A pipe, a cup of 
coffee, the bath, and a little opium, are the 
luxuries of Turkish existence.” 

“ To the devil I fling them all four,” cried 


134 


Dalton, impatiently. “How a man is to be 
social beside a coffee-pot, or up to his neck in 
hot water, beats me entirely. Faix! I don’t 
envy the Turks !” And he sipped his glass as 
he spoke, like one who had fallen upon a hap- 
pier destiny. 

“If you’ll mix me a very small glass of 
that punch, I’d like to propose a toast,” said 
v Foglass. 

“ There, now, that’s spoke like a sensible 
man 5 pleasant company and social enjoyment 
are the greatest enemies to the gout. Make 
your mind easy, and keep your heart light, and 
the devil a fear but your knees will get limber, 
and the swellin’ will leave your ankles ; but 
weak punch and tiresome people would undher- 
mine the best constitution in the world. Taste 
that.” 

To judge from Mr. Foglass’s face, Dalton 
had at least provided one element of health for 
his companion. 

“ It is very strong — very strong indeed !” 
said he, puckering up his eyes. 

“It’s the fault of the water hereabouts,” 
said Dalton. “It doesn’t mix right with the 
spirits ; so that one-half — the first generally — 
of your liquor tastes stiff, but the bottom is mild 
as milk.” 

The explanation gave such encouragement 
to Foglass, that he drank away freely, and it 
was only when he had finished that he remem- 
bered his intention of giving a toast. 

“Now, Mr. Dalton,” said he, as he sat up 
with a replenished glass in his hand, “I am 
going to redeem my pledge, and about to give 
you the health of the most beautiful girl in Italy 
— one whose attractions are the theme of every 
tongue, and whose ambitions may realize any 
height, or attain any eminence that she pleases.” 

“ Here’s to you, Kate Dalton,” broke in the 
father, “ my own sweet child ; and if you only 
come back to me as you went away, the sorrow 
better I ask, or grander.” 

“ She will be a duchess ; she may be a prin- 
cess if she likes.” 

“ Who knows — who knows ?” said Dalton, 
as he hung down his head, and hammered 
away with his spoon at the sugar in the glass. 

“Every one knows, every one sees it, Mr. 
Dalton,” said Foglass, authoritatively. “From 
the Archduke Ernest of Austria to the very 
pages of the court, all are her worshipers and 
admirers. She’ll come back to you with a proud 
name and a high coronet, Mr. Dalton.” 

“ The devil a better than Dalton ever ’twill 
be ! that I can tell you. ’Tisn’t yesterday we 
took it, the same name ; there’s stones in the 
church-yard of Ballyhack can show who we are ; 
and if she married the — the — God forgive me, 

I was going to say the Pope, but I meant the 
Grand T. urk she wouldn’t be better than she 
is now, as Kate Dalton.” 

“ Not better, certainly, but in a more exalted 
rank ; in a position of more recognized distinc- 
tion, ” said Foglass, blandly. 

“Noj nor that neither,” cried Dalton, angri- 


The Daltons goes back to the ancient 
times of all. There’s one of our name in the 
Bible. I’m not sure where, but I believe it’s 
in the Book of Kings, or may be the Psalms ; 
but wherever it is, he was a real gentleman, 
living on his own estate, with his livery-servants, 
and his horses, and every thing in good style 
about him ; high on the Grand Jury ; maybe 
Sheriff of the county.” 

Foglass, who had followed this description 
but imperfectly, could only bow in a deep ac- 
knowledgment of what he did not understand. 

“ The man that marries Kate Dalton isn’t 
doing a piece of condescension, any how ! that 
I can tell him. The dirty acres may slip away 
from us, but our good blood won’t.” 

“ No man has a higher veneration for blood, 
sir,” said Foglass, proudly ; “ few men have 
better reason for the feeling.” 

“Is Fogles an old stock?” asked Dalton, 
eagerly. 

“Foglass, like Fitzroy, sir, may mean more 
than loyalty would dare to avow. My father, 
Mr. Dalton — but this is a very sad theme with 
me, let us change it ; let us drink to a better 
feeling in our native land, when that abominable 
statute may be erased from our code — when 
that offspring of suspicion and distrust shall no 
longer be the offense and opprobrium of English- 
men. Here’s to its speedy and everlasting re- 
peal !” 

The word was talismanic to Dalton, connect- 
ed, as it was, in his mind with but one subject. 
He arose at once, and holding up his goblet in 
the air, cried out, 

“ Hip ! hip ! hurra ! three cheers, and success 
to it ! Repeal forever !” 

Foglass echoed the sentiment with equal en- 
thusiasm, and draining his glass to the bottom, 
exclaimed, 

“ Thank you, Dalton ! thank you ; the heart- 
iness of that cheer tells me we are friends ; and 
although you know not what my feelings are— 
indeed none can — you can execrate with honest 
indignation those hateful unions.” 

“Bad luck to it!” exclaimed Dalton, with 
energy. “We never had grace nor luck since 
we saw it !” 

“ Those petty German sovereigns with their 
territories the size of Hyde Park !” said Foglass, 
with intense contempt. 

“Just so. The Hessians!” chimed in Dal- 
ton, who bad a faint consciousness that the 
other was alluding to the troops of the Elector- 
ate, once quartered in Ireland. 

“ Let us change the topic, Dalton,” said 
Foglass, pathetically, as he wiped his brow like 
a man dispelling a dark train of thought. 

“ Here’s to that charming young lady I saw 
last evening, a worthy sister of the beautiful 
Miss Dalton.” 

“ A better child never breathed,” said Dalton, 
drinking off his glass. “My own poor Nellv,” 
muttered he, below his breath, “ ’tis better than 
handsome ye are — true-hearted, and fond of your 
old father.” 


THE DALTONS : OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 

iy- 


135 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


u She has accomplishments, sir, that would 
realize a fortune; that is,” said he, perceiving 
the dark cloud that passed over Dalton’s features, 
“ that is, i( she were in a rank of life to need it.” 

“ Yes — very true — just so,” stammered out 
Dalton, not quite sure how to accept the speech. 
<,J Tis a fine thing to be able to make money; 
not that it was ever the gift of the Daltons. 
We were real gentlemen to the backbone; and 
there wasn’t one of the name, for five gen- 
erations — barring Stephen — that could earn six- 
pence if he was starving.” 

“ But Stephen, what could he do ?” inquired 
Foglass, curious to hear of this singular excep- 
tion to the family rule. 

“ He took to soldiering in the Austrian army, 
and lie's a field-marshal, and I don’t know what 
more besides, this minute. My son Frank’s there 
now.” 

“ And likes it?” 

“ Troth, he doesn’t say a great deal about 
that. His letter is mighty short, and tells very 
little more than where he’s quartered — how hard 
worked he is — and that he never gets a minute 
to himself, poor fellow !” 

“ Miss Kate, then, has drawn the prize in the 
Lottery of Life ?” said Foglass, w T ho was anxious 
to bring the subject back to her. 

“Faix! that’s as it may be,” said the other, 
thoughtfully. “ Her letters is full of high life 
and great people, grand dances and balls, and 
the rest of it ; but sure, if she’s to come back 
here again and live at home, won’t it come 
mighty strange to her?” 

“ But in Ireland, when you return there, the 
society, I conclude, is very good ?” asked Foglass, 
gradually drawing him on to revelations of his 
future intentions and plans. 

“ Who knows if I’ll ever see it again ? The 
estate has left us. ’Tis them Onslows has it 
now. It might be in w r orse hands, no doubt; 
but they’ve no more right to it than you have?” 

“ No right to it — how do you mean ?” 

“ I mean what I say. That if every one had 
their own, sorrow an acre of that property would 
be theirs. ’Tis a long story, but if you like to 
hear it, you’re welcome. It’s more pleasure 
than pain to me to tell it ; though many a man 
in my situation wouldn’t have the heart to go 
over it.” 

Foglass pronounced his willingness at once ; 
and a fresh jorum of punch being concocted, 
Dalton commenced that narrative of his mar- 
riage, widowhood, and loss of fortune, of which 
the reader already knows the chief particulars, 
and with whose details we need not twice inflict 
him. 

The narrative was a very long one ; nor was 
it rendered more succinct by the manner of the 
narrator, nor the frequent interruptions to which, 
for explanation sake, Foglass subjected him. 
Shall we own, too, that the punch had some 
share in the intricacy, Dalton’s memory and 
Foglass’s perceptions growing gradually more 
and more nebulous as the evening went on. 
Without at all wishing to impugn Dalton’s good 


faith, it must be owned that, what between his 
occasional reflections, his doubts, guesses, sur- 
mises, and suspicions, his speculations as to the 
reason of this, and the cause of that, it was very 
difficult for a man so deeply versed in punch as 
Foglass to carry away any thing like a clear 
notion of the eventful occurrences related. The 
strength of the potation, the hour, the length of 
the story, the parenthetical interruptions — which, 
although only by-paths, often looked exactly like 
the high road — and probably, too, certain inac- 
curacies in the adjustment of the ear-trumpet, 
which grew to be very difficult at last — all con- 
tributed, more or less, to a mystification which 
finally resembled nothing so much as a very 
confused dream. 

Had the worthy ex-consul then been put on 
his oath, he couldn’t have said whether or not 
Sir Stafford had murdered the late Mr. Godfrey, 
or if that crime should be attributed to Dalton’s 
late wife. Between Sir Guy Stafford and Sir 
Stafford Onslow, he had a vague suspicion of 
some Siamese bond of union, but that they were 
cut asunder late in life, and were now drifting 
in different currents, he also surmised. But 
which of them “ got the fortune,” and which 
had not — who held the estate at present, and 
how Dalton came to be there at that moment 
relating the story — were Chinese puzzles to him. 

Murder, matrimony, debts, difficulties, and 
chancery suits, danced an infernal reel through 
his brain ; and, what with the scattered frag- 
ments of Irish life thrown in incidentally, of 
locking dinner parties in, and barring the sheriff 
out, of being chased by bailiffs, or hunting them 
— all these “ divertisements” ending in a resi- 
dence abroad, w T ith its manifold discomforts and 
incongruities — poor F oglass was in a state which, 
were it only to be permanent, would have pre- 
sented a spectacle of very lamentable insanity. 

The nearest approach to a fact that he could 
come to was, that Dalton ought to be enormous- 
ly rich, and that now he hadn’t a sixpence ; that 
the wealthy banker was somehow the cause, 
Count Stephen being not altogether blameless; 
and that Kate was living a life of extravagance 
and waste, while her father and sister were 
waging a hard fight with the very “ grimmest” 
of poverty. 

“L’homme propose,” &c., says the adage; 
and the poet tells us an instance, that “Those 
who came to scoff, remained to pray.” So in 
the present case, Mr. Foglass, w T hose mission 
w r as to pump Peter Dalton out of every family 
secret and circumstance, had opened such an 
unexpected stream of intelligence upon himself, 
that he was actually carried away in the flood. 

“ You’ve been hardly used, Dalton,” said he, 
at last. “ I may say, infamously treated ! Not 
only your fortune taken away, but your children 
torn from you !” 

“ Ay, just so.” Dalton liked sympathy too 
well to cavil about his title to it. “ True for 
you, a harder case than mine you’ll not hear of 
in a summer’s day. My elegant fine place, my 
beautiful domain, the seat of my ancestors — or 


136 THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


if they weren’t, they were my wife’s, and that’s 
all the same — and to be sitting here, in a foreign 
country, hundreds of miles away from home ! 
Oh, dear! oh, dear! but that’s a change!” For 
an instant the thought overwhelmed him, and he 
was silent; then, fixing his eyes on Foglass, he 
added, in a dreamy soliloquy, “ Hundreds of miles 
away from home, drinking bad brandy, with a 
deaf chap in a red wig for company !” 

“ I call yours a case of downright oppression, 
Dalton,” resumed the other, who fortunately 
overheard nothing of the last remark. “If you 
had been residing in Persia or the Caucasus — 
even in the Danubian provinces — we’d have 
made you a case for the Foreign Office. You’d 
have had your compensation, sir. Ay, faith ! 
you’d have had a good round sum for the murder 
of your father — old, what’s his name? You’d 
have had your claim, sir, for the loss of that fine 
boy the Austrians have taken from you, Mrs. 
Dalton’s wardrobe, and all that sort of thing. 
I must repeat my conviction, you’ve been gross- 
ly — infamously treated !” 

“ And just to think of my ow T n flesh and blood 
—Stephen, my uncle !” 

“I can’t think of him, sir! I can’t bear to 
think of him !” cried Foglass, with enthusiasm. 

“ A count of the empire !” resumed Dalton.; 
“a field- marshal, and a something else, with his 
Maria Theresa !” 

“ At his age, he might give up those habits,” 
said Foglass, who had converted the cross of the 
empress into a very different relationship. 

“And now, there’s Kate,” said Dalton, who 
never heard his comment — “there’s Kate, my 
own favorite of them all ! thinks no more about 
us than if wc didn’t belong to her.” 

“Living in splendor!” mumbled Foglass. 
H Boundless extravagance !” 

“Just so! Wasting hundreds — flinging the 
money about like chaff!” 

“ I saw a ball dress of hers myself, at Mad- 
ame Fanchone’s, that was to cost three thou- 
sand francs !” 

“ Three thousand francs ! How 7 am I to bear 
if at all ?” exclaimed Dalton, fiercely. “ Will 
any man tell me how an Irish gentleman, with 
an embarrassed estate, and in the present times, 
can meet such extravagance as that? Three 
thousand francs ! and, maybe, for a flimsy rag, 
that wouldn’t stand a shower of rain ! Oh, 
Fogles! you don’t know the man that's sitting 
Before you — hale and stout and hearty as he 
looks — the trials he has gone through, and the 
troubles he has faced — -just for his children. 
Denying himself every enjoyment in life ! (here 
he sippod his glass) — giving up every little com- 
fort he was used to ! (another sip) — all for his 
family ! Look at my coat ; feel the wool of it ; 
see my breeches, tis like the hide of a bear they 
are ; take notice of my shoes ; and there’s my 
purse, with two florins and eight kreutzers in it; 
and, may I never see glory, if I don’t owe a little 
bill in every shop that will trust me ! And for 
what? Answer me that. For what?” 

Although the savage energy with which this 


question was put would have extorted an answer 
from the least willing witness, Foglass was un- 
able to reply, and only stared in mute astonish- 
ment. 

“ I’ll tell you for what, Fogles,” resumed 
Dalton, with a stroke of his clenched fist upon 
the table — “I'll tell you for what! To have a 
son in the Hussars, and a daughter in all the 
height of fashion and fine life ! That’s it, Fo- 
gles. My boy keeping company with all the 
first people in Austria, hand and glove with — 
what’s his name ? something like 4 Misty’ or 
4 Hazy’ — I forget it now — dining, driving, and 
shooting with them. And my girl, Kate — but 
sure you know better than myself what style 
she’s keeping ! That’s the reason I’m what you 
see me here — pining away in solitude and small 
means ! All fur my children’s sake !” 

44 It is highly meritorious, 1 It does you honor, 
Dalton,” said the other, emphatically. 

“Well, I hope it does,” said he, with a sigh. 
“ But how few know it, after all !” 

“ And has this same Sir Stafford never taken 
any steps toward recompensing you ? Has there 
been nothing like an amende for the great losses 
you’ve sustained ?” t 

“ Oh, indeed, to do him justice, he made me 
a kind of an offer once ; but you see it was ham- 
pered with so many conditions and restrictions, 
and the like, that I rejected it with contempt. 
4 No,’ says I ; 4 ’tisn’t poverty will ever make 
me demean the old family ! The Daltons won’t 
suffer disgrace from me !’ ” 

44 He could have assisted you without. such an 
alternative, Dalton.” 

“Maybe he could, indeed !” sighed the other. 

44 1 know it well ; the man is one of the rich- 
est in England — the head of a great bank be- 
sides, making thousands every week.” 

“I often thought of that,” said Dalton. “Sure 
it would cost him little just to discount a small 
thing for me at three months. I’d take care to 
meet it, of course ; and he’d never lose a six- 
pence by me. Indeed, he’d be gaining; for he’d 
have the commission, and the discount, and the 
interest, and the devil-knows-what besides of law 
expenses — ” 

Here he stopped abruptly, for he had unwit- 
tingly strayed into another and very different 
hypothesis regarding the fate of his bill. How- 
ever, he pulled up short, tossed off his punch, and 
said, “ I only wish he’d do it !” 

44 Why not try him, then ? you ought, at 
least, to give yourself the chance.” 

44 And, if he refused me, I’d have to call him 
out,” said Dalton, gravely; “and just see all 
the confusion that would lead to. My daughter 
on a visit there, myself here, and, maybe, obliged 
to go hundreds of miles to meet him, and no end 
to the expense, taking a friend with me, too. 
No. no ! that would be too selfish entirely.” 

44 What if you were to throw out a hint, when 
you write to your daughter. Allude to present 
pressure for money — speak of tenants in arrears 
— remittances not arrived.” 

44 Oh, faith ! there’s no need prompting me 


137 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


about these things,” said Dalton, with a bitter 
laugh. ‘'I know them too well already.” 

‘‘Write a few lines, then; you’ll find paper 
and pens on that table. I’ve told you that I 
will send it under my own seal, with the dis- 
patches.” 

Dalton was very little given to letter-writing 
at any period, but to encounter the labor at 
night by candle-light, and after a few hours’ 
carouse, seemed to him quite out of the ques- 
tion. Still, the embassy seal, whatever that 
might be, was no common temptation. Perhaps 
he fancied it to be one of those portentous ap- 
pendages which are seen attached to royal 
grants. Who can tell what amount of wax and 
ribbon his imagination bestowed upon it? Be- 
side this, there was another motive — never 
again, perhaps, should he be able to write with- 
out Nelly’s knowledge. This consideration de- 
cided the question at once. Accordingly he put 
on his spectacles, and seated himself gravely to 
the work, which proceeded thus : 

“ Dear Kate, 

“ I’m spending the evening with your friend 
the embassador of — I forget where — Fogles 
is his name — and as pleasant a man as I ever 
met ; and he sends his regards to you and all 
the family, and transmits this under his own 
seal. Things is going on bad enough here. 
Not a shilling out of Crognoborraghan. Healey 
ran away with the November rent and the crops, 
and Sweene} T ’s got into the place, and won’t give 
it up to any one without he gets forty pounds. 
I’d give him forty of my teeth as soon, if I had 
them. Ryan shot Mr. Johnson coming home 
from work, and will be hanged on Saturday ; 
and that’s in our favor, as he was a life in 
Honan’s lease. There’s no money in Ireland, 
Kellet tells me, and there’s none here. Where 
the blazes is it all gone to? Maybe, like the 
potatoes, ’tis dying out ! 

•“ Frank’s well sick of soldiering ; they chained 
him up like a dog, with his hand to his leg, the 
other night for going to the play ; and if he 
wasn’t a born gentleman, he says, they’d have 
given him ‘ four-and-twenty,’ as he calls it, with 
a stick for impudence. Stephen’s no more good 
to him than an old umbrella — never gave him 
bit nor sup ! Bad luck to the old Neygur — I 
can’t speak of him. 

“Nelly goes on carving and cutting away as 
before. There’s not a saint in the calendar she 
didn’t make out of rotten wood this winter, and 
little Hans buys them all, at a fair price, she 
says; but I call a Holy Family cheap at ten 
florins, and ’tis giving the Virgin away to sell 
her for a Prussian dollar. ’Tis a nice way for 
one of the Daltons to be living — by her own in- 
dustry ! % « „ 

“ I often wish for you back here ; but I’d be 
sorry, after all, ye’d come, for the place is poorer 
than ever, and you're in good quarters, and snug 
where you are. 

“ Tell me how they treat you — if they’re as 
kind as before — and how is the old man, and is 


the gout bad with him still. I send you in this 
a little bill Martin Cox, of Drumsnagh, inclosed 
me for sixty-two ten-and-eight — could you get 
the old baronet to put his name on it for me ; 
tell him ’tis as good as the bank paper, that Cox 
is as respectable a man as any in Leitrim, and 
an estated gentleman, like myself, and, of course, 
that we’ll take care to have the cash ready for 
it when due. This will be a great convenience 
to me, and Fogles says it will be a pleasure to 
Sir Stafford, besides extending his connection 
among Irish gentlemen. If he seems to like the 
notion, say that your father is well known in 
Ireland, and can help him to a very lively busi- 
ness in the same way. Indeed, I’d have been a 
lortune to him myself, alone, if he had the dis- 
counting of me for the last fifteen years ! 

“Never mind this, however, for bi’agging is 
not genteel ; but get me his name, and send me 
the ‘ bit of stiff’ by return of post. 

“ If he wants to be civil, maybe, he’ll put it 
into the bank himself, and send me the money ; 
and if so, let the order be on Haller and Oelcher, 
for I’ve a long account with Koch and Elz, and 
maybe they’d keep a grip of the cash, and I’d 
just be where I was before. 

“If I can get out of this next spring it would 
be a great economy, for I owe something to 
every body, and a new place always gives cour- 
age. 

“ I’m hesitating whether I’ll go to Genoa or 
New York, but cheapness will decide me, for I 
only live for my family. 

“ With all my affection, 

“ Believe me your fond father, 

“ Peter Dalton. 

“ P.S. — If Sir S. would rather have my own 
acceptance, let him draw for a hundred, at three 
months, and I’m ready ; but don’t disappoint 
me, one way or other* Wood is fifteen florins a 
‘klafter’ here, now, and I’ve nobody to cut it 
when it comes home, as Andy took a slice out 
of his shin on Friday last with the hatchet, and 
is in bed ever since. Vegetables, too, is dear; 
and since Frank went, we never see a bit of 
game. 

“ 2d P.S. — If you had such a thing as a 
warm winter cloak that you didn’t want, you 
might send it to Nelly. She goes out in a thing 
like a bit of brown paper, and the wooden shoes 
is mighty unhandy with her lameness. 

“ Mind the bill.” 

“ You are writing a rather lengthy dispatch, 
Dalton,” said Foglass, who had twice dozed off 
to sleep, and woke again, only to see him still 
occupied with his epistle. 

“ It’s done now,” said Dalton, with a sigh ; 
for, without well knowing why, he was not quite 
satisfied with the performance. 

“I wish you’d just add a line, to say that 
Mrs. Ricketts — Mrs. Major-General Ricketts, 
who resides at Florence, is so desirous to know 
her. You can mention that she is one of the 
first people, but so exclusive about acquaintance, 
that it is almost impossible to get presented to 


r 


138 THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


her, but that this coming winter the Embassy 
will, in all likelihood, open a door to so very 
desirable an object.” 

“Lady Hester will know her, of course?” 
said Dalton, whose sense of proprieties was 
usually clear enough when selfishness did not 
interfere, “and I don’t see that my daughter 
should extend her acquaintance through any 
other channel.” 

“ Oh, very true ; it’s of no consequence. I 
only meant it as an attention to Miss Dalton; 
but your observation is very just,” said Foglass, 
who suddenly felt that he was on dangerous 
ground. 

“Depend upon’t, Fogles, my daughter is in 
the best society of the place, wherever it is. It’s 
not a Dalton would be left out.” 

Foglass repeated his most implicit conviction 
in this belief, and did all in his power to efface 

V . • • * • * • * - . - ' ■! v ' r ’ 

V / • r 


( 

* '» 





the memory of the suggestion ; but without suc- 
cess. Family pride was a kind of birdlime with 
old Dalton, and if he but touched, he could not 
leave it. The consequences, however, went no 
further than a long and intricate dissertation on 
the Dalton blood for several centuries back, 
through which Foglass slept just as soundly as 
the respected individuals there recorded, and 
was only awoke at last by Dalton rising to take 
leave — an event at last suggested by the empty 
decanter. 

“And now, Fogles,” said he, summing up, 
“you’ll not wonder, that if we’re poor we’ro 
proud. I suppose you never heard of a better 
stock than that since you were born ?” 

“ Never, by Jove ! Guelphs, Ghibellines, and 
Hapsburghs, are nothing to them. Good-night 
— good-night. I’ll take care of your letter. It 
shall go to-morrow, in the Embassy-bag.” 


i • - ; f 

* ' • ‘ . *' * 




S'* K \. 



* 'J 




4,0 




• ; *■* 4 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

AN INVASION. 




a 


To afford the reader the explanation contained 
in the preceding chapter, we have been obliged 
to leave Kate Dalton waiting, in mingled anxie- 
ty and suspense, for the honor of Mrs. Ricketts’ 
visit. Although her mind principally dwelt 
upon the letter which had been announced as 
coming from her father — an event so strange as 
naturally to cause astonishment — she also occa- 
sionally recurred to the awkwardness of receiv- 
ing persons whom Lady Hester had so scrupu- 
lously avoided, and being involved in an ac- 
quaintanceship so unequivocally pronounced vul- 
gar. A few short months before, and the inci- 
dent would have worn a very different aspect to 
her eyes. She would have dwelt alone on the 
kindness of one, an utter stranger, addressing 
her in terms of respectful civility, and proffering 
the intention of a visit. She would have been 
grateful for the good-nature that took charge of 
a communication for her. She would have 
viewed the whole as a sort of flattering notice, 
and never dreamed of that long catalogue of 
“inconveniences” and annoyances, so prolifically 
associated with the event as it at present stood. 
She was greatly changed in many respects. She 
had been daily accustomed to hear the most out- 
rageous moral derelictions lightly treated, or, at 
least, but slightly censured. For every fault 
and failing there was a skillful excuse or a chari- 
table explanation. The errors of the fashionable 
world were shown to be few, insignificant, and 
venial ; and the code showed no exception to 
the rule that “ well-bred people can do no 
wrong vulgarity alone was criminal ; and the 
eins of the under-bred admitted of no palliation. 
Her sense of justice might have revolted against 
such judgments, had reason been ever appealed 
to ; but such was not the case. Ridicule alone 
was the arbiter : whatever could be scoffed at 
was detestable ; and a solecism in dress, accent, 
or demeanor, were higher crimes than many a 
grave transgression or glaring iniquity. 

The little mimicries of Albert Jekyl, as he 
described Mrs. Ricketts — the few depreciatory 
remarks of Lady Hester concerning her — would 
have outweighed her worth, had her character 
been a cornucopia of goodness. It was, then, 
in no pleasant flurry of spirits that, just as the 
clock struck three, Kate heard the heavy door 
of the Palace flung wide, and the sound of 
wheels echo beneath the vaulted entrance. The 
next moment, a small one-horse phaeton, driven 


by a very meagre servant in a tawdry livery, 
passed into the court-yard, having deposited its 
company in the hall. 

There had been a time, and that not so very 
far back, neither, when the sight of that hum- 
ble equipage, with visitors, would have made 
her heart beat to the full as strong, albeit with 
very different emotions. Now, however, she 
actually glanced at the windows to see if it had 
attracted notice, with a kind of terror at the 
ridicule it would excite. Never did she think 
an old gray horse could be so ugly — never did 
wheels make so intolerable a noise before ! 
Why would people dress up their servants like 
harlequins ? what was the meaning of that leop- 
ard-skin rug for the feet? It was an odious 
little vehicle altogether. There was a tawdry, 
smirking, self-satisfied pretension about its pov- 
erty, that made one wish for a break down on 
looking at it ! 

“Mrs. Montague Ricketts and Miss Ricketts,” 
said a very demure-looking groom of the cham- 
bers ; and although his features were immacu- 
late in their expression of respect, Kate felt 
offended at what she thought was a flippancy 
in the man’s manner. 

Although the announcement was thus made, 
the high and mighty personages were still three 
rooms off, and visible only in the dim distance 
coming slowly forward. 

Leaning on her sister’s arm, and with a step 
at once graceful and commanding, Mrs. Ricketts 
came on. At least, so Kate judged an enor- 
mous pyramid of crimson velvet and ermine to 
be, from the summit of which waved a suffi- 
ciency of plumes for a moderate hearse. The 
size and dignity of this imposing figure almost 
entirely eclipsed poor Martha, and completely 
shut out the slender proportions of Mr. Scroopa 
Purvis, who, from being loaded like a sumpter- 
mule with various articles for the road, was 
passed over by the Groom of the Chambers, 
and believed to be a servant. Slow as was tha 
order of march, Purvis made it still slower, by 
momentarily dropping some of the articles with 
which he was charged ; and as they comprised 
a footstool, a poodle, two parasols, an album, a 
smelling-bottle, a lorgnette, with various cushions, 
shawls, and a portable fire-screen, his difficulties 
may be rather compassionated than censured. 

“ Scroope, how can you? Martha, do speak 
to him. It’s down again. He’ll smash my 


140 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


lorgnette — he’ll smother Fidele, How very 
awkward — how absurd we shall look !” Such 
were the sotto voce accompaniments that filled 
up the intervals till they arrived at the great 
drawipg-room, where Kate Dalton sat. 

If the reader has ever watched a great trage- 
dy queen emerging from the flats, when, after 
a lively dialogue with the prompter, and the 
utterance of a pleasant jest, she issues forth 
upon the open stage, to vent the sorrows or the 
wrongs of injured womanhood, he may form 
some faint idea of the rapid transformation that 
Mrs. Ricketts underwent as she passed the 
door-sill. Her first movement was a sudden 
bound forward, or, at least, such an approach 
to a spring as a body so imposing could accom- 
plish, and then, throwing her arms wide, she 
seemed as if about to inclose Miss Dalton in a 
fast embrace ; and so, doubtless, had she done, 
if Kate had responded to the sign. A deep and 
very formal courtesy was, however, her only 
acknowledgment of this spontaneous burst of 
feeling, and Mrs. Ricketts, like a skillful general, 
at once changing her plan of attack, converted 
her ardor into astonishment, and exclaimed, 

u Did you ever see such a resemblance ! 
Could you believe it possible, Martha ? A 
thousand apologies, my dear Miss Dalton, for 
this rudeness ; but you are so wonderfully like 
our dear, dear friend, Lady Caroline Montressor, 
that I actually forgot myself. Pray forgive 
me, and let me present my sister, Miss Rick- 
etts. My brother, Mr. Scroope Purvis, Miss 
Dalton.” 

The ceremonial of introduction over, and Mrs. 
Ricketts being at last seated — a very tedious 
operation, in which the arrangement of cushions, 
pillows, and footstools, played a conspicuous 
part — that bland lady began, in her very softest 
of voices : 

“This, indeed, repays me — amply, fully re- 
pays me ! eh, Martha ?” 

“Quite so, sister,” responded Martha, in a 
meek whisper. 

“ A poor invalid as I am, rarely rising from 
a sofa except to snatch the perfumed odors of a 
violet in spring, or to listen to the murmurs of 
a rippling fountain; denied all the excitements 
of society by a nervous temperament, so finely 
strung as to be jarred by contact, even the 
remotest, with inferior souls — think of what 
ecstasy a moment like this affords me !” 

As Kate was profoundly ignorant to what 
b&ppy combination of circumstances this blissful 
state could be attributed, she could only smile 
courteously, and mutter some vague expressions 
of her pleasure, satisfaction, and so forth. 

“Eve in her own paradise !” exclaimed Mrs. 
Ricketts, as she turned her eyes from Kate to 
the gorgeous chamber in which they were seat- 
ed. “ May I ask if the taste of these decora- 
tions be yours, Miss Dalton?” 

“ Lady Hester Onslow’s, madam,” said Kate, 
quietly. 

“ I declare, I like these hangings better than 
* Gobelins’ — they are lighter, and more grace- 


ful. You remember, Martha, I told the dear 
Queen of Saxony that blue velvet wpuld go so 
well with her small pictures. We discussed the 
point every morning at breakfast for a week, 
and the poor dear king at last called us the 
‘ blue devils’ — very happy, wasn’t it, Miss Dal- 
ton? But he speaks English just like one of 
ourselves.” 

“ These are all Dutch pictures, I perceive,” 
said Purvis, who, with his poodle under his arm, 
was making a tour of the room, peering into 
every thing, opening books, prying into china 
jars, and spying into workboxes, as though in 
search of some missing article. 

“ I am tired of Wou — Wou — Wou — ” Here 
the poodle bai'ked, doubtless in the belief that 
he was responding to an invitation. “ Down, 
Fidele ! Wou — vermans,” gulped out Purvis. 
“ He’s always the same.” 

“ But those dear white palfreys, how I love 
them ! I always have a white horse out of re- 
gard for Wpuvermans.” 

Kate thought of the poor gray in the court- 
yard, and said nothing. 

“ And there is something so touching — so 
exquisitely touching — in those Flemish interiors, 
where the good wife is seated reading, and a 
straggling sunbeam comes slanting in upon the 
tiled floor. Little peeps of life, as it were, in 
a class of which we know nothing; for really 
Miss Dalton, in our order, sympathies are too 
much fettered ; and I often think it would be 
better that we knew more of the middle classes ! 
When I say this, of course I do not mean as 
associates — far less as intimates — but as more- 

• o 

dients in the grand scheme of universal nature.” 

“ ‘ The no — no — noblest study of man — man- 
kind is’ — what is it, sister?” 

“‘Man,’ Scroope; but the poet intended to 
refer to the great aims and objects of our being. 
Don’t you think so, Miss Dalton ? It was not 
man in the little cares of every-day life, in his so- 
cial relations, but man in his destinies, in his vast 
future, when he goes beyond ‘that bourne — ’ ” 

“From which nobody ever got out again,” 
cackled Purvis, in an ecstasy at the readiness of 
his quotation. 

“ ‘From which no traveler returns,’ Scroope, 
is, I believe, the more correct version.” 

“ Then it don’t mean pur — pur — pur — pur- 
gatory,” gulped Scroope, who, as soon as the 
word was uttered, became shocked at what he 
said. \ * ' - .. ; . '' 

“ I forgot you were a Ro — Ro — Roman, Miss 
Dalton,” said he, blushing. 

“ You are in error, Scroope,” said Mrs. Rick- 
etts. “ Miss Dalton is one of ourselves. All 
the distinguished Irish are of the reformed 
faith.” 

“ I am a Catholic, madam,” said Kate, not 
knowing whether to be more amused or annoyed 
at the turn the conversation had taken. 

“I knew it,” cried Purvis, in delight. “I 
tracked your carriage to the D — D — Duomo, and 
I went in after you, and saw you at the co — co 
— co — co — ” 


141 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“Corner.” whispered Martha, who, from his 
agonies, grew afraid of a fit. 

“ No, not the corner, but the co — co — co — 
confessional — confessional, where you staid for 
an hour and forty minutes by my own watch ; 
and I couldn’t help thinking that your pec — pec 
— pec — peccadiloes were a good long score, by 
the time it took to — to — to — tell them.” 

“Thanks, sir,” said Kate bowing, and with 
difficulty restraining her laughter : “ thanks, 
lor the very kind interest you seem to have 
taken in my spiritual welfare.” 

“ Would that I might be suffered a participa- 
tion in that charge, Miss Dalton,” cried Mrs. 
Ricketts, with enthusiasm, “ and allowed to hold 
some converse with you on doctrinal ques- 
tions.” 

“Try her with the Posers, sister,” whispered 
Purvis. • 

“ Hush, Scroope. Mere opportunities of 
friendly discussion, nothing more I ask for, Miss 
Dalton.” 

“ Give her the Posers,” whispered Purvis, 
louder. ' . 

“ Be quiet, Scroope. I have been fortunate 
enough to resolve the doubts of more than one 
ere this. That dear angel, the Princess Ethe- 
linda of Cobourg, I believe I may say, owes 
her present enlightenment to our sweet even- 
ings together*.” - r 

“ Begin with the Posers.” 

“ Hush ! I say, Scroope.” 

“May I ask,” said Kate, “what is the sug- 
gestion Mr. Purvis has been good enough to 
repeat.” 

“ That I should give you this little tract, 
Miss Dalton,” said Mrs. Ricketts, as she drew 
out a miscellaneous assemblage of articles from 
a deep pocket, and selected from the mass a 
small blue-covered pamphlet, bearing the title, 
“Three Posers for Papists,” by M. R. 

“ Montgomery Ricketts,” said Purvis, proud- 
ly ; “ she wrote it hefself, and the Pope wen’t 
let us into Rome in consequence; it’s very 
droll, too ; and the part about the — the — Yir — 
gin—” ' 

“ You will, I’m sure, excuse me, madam,” 
said Kate, “ if I beg that this subject be suffer- 
ed to drop. My thanks for the interest this 
gentleman and yourself have vouchsafed me 
will only be more lasting by leaving the im- 
pression of them unassociated with any thing 
unpleasing. You were good enough to say 
that you had a letter for me ?” 

“ A letter from your father — that dear, fond 
father, who doats so distractedly upon you, and 
who really seems to live but to enjoy your 
triumphs. Martha, where is the letter?” 

“ I gave it to Scroope, sister.” 

“ No, you didn’t. I never saw — ” 

“Yes. Scroope, I gave it to you at the draw- 
ing-room fire — ” 

“ Yes, to be sure, and I put it into the ca — 
ca — ca — ” 

“ Not the candle, I hope,” cried Kate, in 
terror. 


“ No, into the card-rack ; and there it is now.” 

“How provoking!” cried Mrs. Ricketts; 
“ but you shall have it to-morrow, Miss Dalton. 
I’ll leave it here myself.” 

“ Shall I appear impatient, madam, if I send 
for it this evening.” 

“ Of course not, my dear Miss Dalton ; but 
shall I commit the precious charge to a menial’s 
hand ?” 

“ You may do so with safety, madam,” said 
Kate, not without a slight irritation of manner 
as she spoke. 

41 Mr. Foglass, the late minister and envoy 
at—” '• 

Here a tremendous crash, followed by a ter- 
rific yelping noise, broke in upon the colloquy ; 
for it was Fidele had thrown down a Sevres 
jar, and lay, half-buried and howling, under 
the ruins. There was, of course, a general 
rising of the company, some to rescue Vne 
struggling poodle, and others in vain solicitude 
to gather up the fragments of the once beauti- 
ful vase. It was a layorite object with Lady 
Hester; of singular rarity, both for form and 
design; and Kate stood speechless, and almost 
sick with shame and sorrow, at the sight, not 
heeding one syllable of the excuses and apolo- 
gies poured in upon her, nor of the equally 
valueless assurances that it could be easily 
mended ; that Martha was a perfect proficient 
in such arts ; and that, if Scroope would only 
collect the pieces carefully, the most difficult 
connoisseur would not be able to detect a flaw 
in it. 

“ I’ve got a head here; but the no — nose is 
off,” cried Purvis. 

“ Here it is, Scroope. 44 I’ve found it.” 

“ No, that’s a toe,” said he ; “ there’s a nail 
to it.” 

44 1 am getting ill — I shall faint,” said Mrs. 
Ricketts, retiring upon a well-cushioned sofa 
from the calamity. 

Martha now flew to the bell-rope and pulled 
it violently, while Purvis threw open the win- 
dow, and with such rash haste as to upset a 
stand of camelias, thereby scattering plants, 
buds, earth, and crockery over the floor, while 
poor Kate, thunderstruck at the avalanche of 
ruin around her, leaned against the wall for 
support, unable to stir or even speak. As 
Martha continued to tug away at the bell, the 
alarm, suggesting the idea of fire, brought three 
or four servants to the door together. 

“ Madeira ! quick, Madeira !” cried Martha, 
as she unloosed various articles of dress from 
her sister’s throat, and prepared a plan of opera- 
tions for resuscitation that showed at least an 
experienced hand. 

“ Bring wine,” said Kate, faintly, to the 
astonished butler, who, not noticing Miss Rick- 
etts’ order, seemed to await hers. 

44 Madeira ! it must be Madeira !” cried 
Martha, mildly. 

“ She don't dislike Mar — Mar — Marco-brun- 
ner,” whispered Purvis to the servant, “ and 
I’ll take a glass too.” 


142 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Had the irruption been one of veritable house- 
breakers, had the occasion been what news- 
papers stereotype as a “ Daring Burglary,” 
Kate Dalton might, in all likelihood, have dis- 
tinguished herself as a heroine. She would, it 
is more than probable, have evinced no deficiency 
either of courage or presence of mind, but in 
the actual contingency nothing could be more 
utterly helpless than she proved; and, as she 
glided into a chair, her pale face and trembling 
features betrayed more decisive signs of suffer- 
ing than the massive countenance which Martha 
was now deluging with eau de Cologne and 
lavender. 

The wine soon made its appearance — a very 
imposing array of restoratives — the ambulatory 
pharmacopoeia of the Ricketts’ family, was all 
displayed upon a table. Martha, divested of 
shawl, bonnet, and gloves, stood ready for ac- 
tion ; and thus, every thing being in readiness, 
Mrs. Ricketts, whose consideration never suf- 
fered her to take people unawares, now began 
her nervous attack in all form. 

If ague — hysterics — recovery from drowning 
— tic-doloreux, and an extensive burn, had all 
sent representatives of their peculiar agonies, 
with injunctions to struggle for a mastery of 
expression, the symptoms could scarcely have 
equaled those now exhibited. There was not 
a contortion nor convulsion that her counte- 
nance did not undergo, while the devil’s tattoo 
kept up by her heels upon the floor, and her 
knuckles occasionally on the table, and now 
And then on Scroope’s head, added fearfully to 
the effect of her screams, which varied from 
the deep groan of the melodrame to the wildest 
shrieks of tragedy. 

“ There’s no danger, Miss Dalton,” whisper- 
ed Martha, whose functions of hand-rubbing, 
temple-bathing, wine-giving, and so forth, were 
performed with a most jog-trot regularity. 

“ When she sc — sc — screams, she’s all right,” 
added Purvis ; and, certainly, the most anxious 
friend might have been comforted on the pres- 
ent occasion. 

“ Shall I not send for a physician ?” asked 
Kate, eagerly. 

“ On no account, Miss Dalton. We are quite 
accustomed to these seizures. My dear sister’s 
nerves are so susceptible.” 

“ Yes,” said Scroope, who, be it remarked, 
had already half finished a bottle of hock, “ poor 
Zoe is all sensibility — the scabbard too sharp 
for the sword. Won’t you have a glass of 
wine, Miss Dalton ?” 

u Thanks, sir, I take none. I trust she is 
better now — she looks easier.” 

“ She is better ; but this is the difficult mo- 
ment,” whispered Martha. “ Any shock — any 
6udden impression now might prove fatal.” 

“ What is to be done, then ?” said Kate, in 
terror. ^ 

“ She must be put to bed at once, the room 
darkened, and the strictest silence preserved. 
Can you spare your room ?” 

“ Oh, of course, any thing — every thing at 


such a moment,” cried the terrified girl, whose 
reason was nuw completely mastered by her 
fears. 

“ She must be carried. Will you give or- 
ders, Miss Dalton; and Scroope, step down to 
the carriage, and bring up — ” Here Miss 
Ricketts’ voice degenerated into an inaudible 
whisper ; but Scroope left the room to obey the 
command. 

Her sympathy for suffering had so thoroughly 
occupied Kate, that all the train of unpleasant 
consequences that were to follow this unhappy 
incident had never once occurred to her ; nor 
did a thought of Lady Hester cross her mind, 
till, suddenly, the whole flashed upon her, by 
the appearance of her maid Nina in the draw- 
ing-room. 

“To your own room, mademoiselle?” asked 
she, with a look that said far more than any 
words. 

“Yes,” whispered she. “What can I do? 
She is so ill ! They tell me it may be danger- 
ous, at any moment, and — ” 

“ Hush, my dear Miss Dalton !” said Mar- 
tha; “ one word may wake her.” 

“ I’d be a butterfly!” warbled the sick lady, 
in a low, weak treble ; while a smile of angelic 
beatitude beamed on her features. 

“ Hush ! be still !” said Martha, motioning 
the surrounders to silence. 

“ What shall I do, Nina? Shall I go and 
speak to my lady ?” asked Kate. 

A significant shrug of the shoulders, more 
negative than affirmative, was the only answer. 

“ I’d be a gossamer, and you’d be the king 
of Thebes,” said Mrs. Ricketts, addressing a 
tall footman, who stood ready to assist in carry- 
ing her. 

“ Yes, madam,” said he respectfully. 

“ She’s worse,” whispered Martha, gravely.. 

“ And we’ll walk on the wall of China by 
moonlight, with Cleopatra and Mr. Cobden.” 

“ Certainly, madam,” said the man, who fell 
the question too direct for evasion. 

“ Has she been working slippers for the plane! 
Ju — Ju — Jupiter, yet?” asked Purvis, eagerly, 
as he entered the room, heated and flushed 
from the weight of a portentous bag of colored 
wool. 

“No; not yet,” whispered Martha. “You 
may lift her now, gently — very gently, and not 
a word.” ' ' , 

And in strict obedience, the servants raised 
their fair burden, and bore her from the room, 
after Nina, who led the way with an air that 
betokened a more than common indifference to 
human suffering. 

C5 

“ When she gets at Ju — Jupiter,” said Purvis 
to Kate, as they closed the procession, “ it’s a 
bad symptom ; or when she fancies she’s Hec— 
Hec — Hec — Hec — ” 

“ Hecate ?” 

“ No ; not Hec — Hecate, but Hecuba — He- 
cuba; then it’s a month, at least, before she 
comes round.” 

“How dreadful!” cried Kate. And cer- 


143 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


tainly there was not a grain of hypocrisy in the 
fervor with which she uttered it. 

“ I don’t think she’ll go beyond the San — 
Sandwich Islands this time, however,” added 
he, consolingly. 

“ Hush, Scroope !” cried Martha. And now 
they entered the small and exquisitely furnished 
dressing-room which was appropriated to Kate’s 
use ; within which, and opening upon a small 
orangery, stood her bedroom. 

Nina, who scrupulously obeyed every order 
of her young mistress, continued the while to 
exhibit a hundred petty signs of mute rebellion. 

“ Lady Hester wishes to see Miss Dalton,” 
said a servant at the outer door. 

“ Can you permit me for a moment ?” asked 
Kate, in a tremor. 

“ Oh, of course, my dear Miss Dalton ; let 
there be no ceremony with us,” said Martha. 
14 Your kindness makes us feel like old friends 
already.” r : . 

“ I feel myself quite at home,” cried Scroope, 
whose head was not proof against so much wine ; 
and then, turning to one of the servants, he add- 
ed a mild request for the two bottles that were 
left on the drawing-room table. 

Martha happily, however, overheard and re- 
voked the order. And now the various attend- 
ants withdrew, leaving the family to themselves. 

It was in no pleasant mood that Kate took her 
way toward Lady Hester’s apartment. The 
drawing-room, as she passed through it, still, 
exhibited some of the signs of its recent ruin, 
and the servants were busied in collecting frag- 
ments of porcelain and flower-pots. Their mur- 
mured comments, hushed as she went by, told 
her how the occurrence was already the gossip 
of the household. It was impossible for her not 
to connect heiself with the whole misfortune. 
But for her — but she could not endure the 
thought, and it was with deep humiliation and 
trembling in every limb, that she entered Lady 
Hester’s chamber. 

“Leave me, Celadon; I want to speak to 
Miss Dalton,” said Lady Hester to the hair- 
dresser, who had just completed one half of her 
ladyship’s chevdure , leaving the other side pinned 
and rolled up in those various preparatory stages, 
which have more of promise than picturesque 
about them. Her cheek was flushed, and her 
eyes sparkled with an animation that betrayed 
more passion than pleasure. 

“ What is this dreadful story I’ve heard, child, 
and that the house is full of? Is it possible 
there can be any truth in it? Have these odious 
people actually dared to establish themselves 
here ? Tell me, child — speak !” 

“Mrs. Ricketts became suddenly ill,” said 
Kate, trembling ; “ her dog threw down a China 
jar.” 

“Not my Sevres jar? not the large green 
one, with the figures?” 

“ I grieve to say it was !” 

“ Go on. What then ?” said Lady Hester, 
dryly- 

“ Shocked at the incident, and alarmed, be- 


sides, by the fall of a flower-stand, she fainted 
away, and subsequently was seized with what I 
supposed to be a convulsive attack, but to which 
her friends seemed perfectly accustomed, and 
pronounced not dangerous. In this dilemma 
they asked me if they might occupy my room. 
Of course I could not refuse, and yet felt, the 
while, that I had no right to extend the hospi- 
tality of this house. I saw the indelicacy of 
what I was doing. I was shocked and ashamed, 
and yet — ” 

“ Go on,” said Lady Hester once more, and 
with a stern quietude of manner that Kate felt 
more acutely than even an angry burst of temper. 

“I have little more to say; in fact, I know 
not what I am saying,” cried she, gulping to 
repress the torrent of suffering that was strug- 
gling within her. 

“Miss Dalton,” began Lady Hester. 

“ Oh ! why not Kate ?” broke she in with a 
choking utterance. 

“ Miss Dalton,” resumed Lady Hester, and as 
if not hearing the entreaty, “ very little knowl- 
edge of that world you have lived in for the 
past three or four months might have taught you 
some slight self-possession in difficulty. Still 
less acquaintance with it might have suggested 
the recollection that these people are no inti- 
mates of mine ; so that, even were tact want- 
ing, feeling, at least, should have dictated a line 
of action to you.” 

“I know I have done wrong. I knew it at 
the time, and yet, in my inexperience, I could 
not decide on any thing. My memory, too, 
helped to mislead me, for I bethought me, that 
although these persons were not of your own 
rank and station, that yet you had stooped lower 
than them when you came to visit Nelly and 
myself.” 

“ Humph !” ejaculated Lady Hester, and with 
a gesture that very unequivocally seemed to 
say, that her having done so was a grievous 
error. Kate saw it quickly, and as suddenly 
the blood rushed to her cheek, coloring her 
throat and neck with the deep crimson of shame. 
A burst of pride — the old Dalton pride — seemed! 
to have given way within her; and, as she 
drew herself up to her full height, her look and 
attitude wore every sign of haughty indignation. 

Lady Hester looked at her for a few seconds, 
with a glance of searching import. Perhaps, 
for a moment, the possibility of a deception 
struck her, and that this only might be feigned ; 
but as suddenly did she recognize the unerring 
traits of truth, and said, 

“ What ! child, are you angry with me ?” 

“ Oh, no, no,” said Kate, bursting into tears, 
and kissing the hand that was now extended 
toward her ; “ Oh, no, no ! but I could hate my 
self for what seems so like ingratitude.” 

“Come, sit down here at my feet, on this 
stool, and tell me all about it ; for, after all, 1 
could forgive them the jar and the camelias, if 
they’d only have gone away afterward. And, 
of course, the lesson will not be thrown away 
upon you — not to be easily deceived again.” 


144 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ How, deceived !” exclaimed Kate. “ She 
was very ill. I saw it myself.” 

“ Nonsense, child. The trick is the very 
stalest piece of roguery going. Since Toe Mor- 
ris, as they call him — the man that treads upon 
people, and by his apologies scrapes acquaint- 
ance with them — there is nothing less original. 
Why, just before we left England, there was old 
Bankhead got into Slingsby House, merely be- 
cause the newspapers might announce his death 
at the Earl of Grindleton’s— ‘ On the eighth, of 
a few days’ illness, deeply regretted by the noble 
lord, with whom he was on a visit.’ Now, that 
dear Ricketts woman would almost consent to 
take leave of the world for a similar paragraph. 
I’m sure I should know nothing of such people, 
but that Sir Stafford’s relations have somewhat 
enlighted me. He has a nest of cousins down 
in Shropshire, not a whit better than your— I 
was going to call them ‘ your friends,’ the Rick- 
etts.” . j 

“It is almost incredible to suppose this could 
be artificer” 

“Why so, child? There is no strategy too 
deep for people who are always aspiring to some 
society above them. Besides, after all, I was in 
a measure prepared for this.” 

“ Prepared for it !” 

“Yes; Jekyl told me, that if they once got 
in, it would be next to impossible to keep them 
out, afterward. A compromise, he said, was 
the best thing ; to let them have so many days 
each year, with certain small privileges about 
showing the house to strangers, cutting bou- 
quets, and so on ; or, if we preferred it, let them 
carry away a Teniers or a Gerard Dow to copy, 
and take care never to ask for it. He inclined 
to the latter as the better plan, because, after a 
certain lapse of time, it can end in a cut.” 

“ But this is inconceivable !” exclaimed 
Kate. 

“ And yet, half the absurd and incongruous 
intimacies one sees in the world, have had some 
such origin; and habit will reconcile one to 
acquaintance that at first inspired feelings of 
abhorrence and detestation. I’m sure I don’t 
know one good house in town where there are 
not certain intimates that have not the slightest 
pretension, either from rank, wealth, distinction. 


or social qualities, to be there. And yet, there 
they are ;“not merely as supernumeraries, either, 
but very prominent and foreground figures, giv- 
ing advice, and offering counsel on questions of 
family policy, and writing their vulgar names 
on every will, codicil, marriage-settlement, and 
trust-deed, till they seem to be part of the gene- 
alogical tree, to which, after all, they are only 
attached like fungi. You look very unhappy, 
my poor Kate, at all this ; but, believe me, the 
system will outlive both of us. And so, now to 
your room, and dress for dinner. But I forgot; 
you hav’n’t got a room ; so Celestine must give 
you hers, and you will be close beside me, and 
we shall be the better able to concert measures 
about these Ricketts folk, who really resemble 
those amiable peasants your father told me of, 
on his Irish property, and whom he designated 
as ‘Squatters.’ I’m delighted that I hav’n’t 
forgot the word.”. - • , . . • . ' ; t- v 

And thus, chatting on, Lady Hester restored 
Kate’s wonted happiness of nature, sadly shaken 
as it had been by the contrarieties of the morn- 
ing. Nothing, too, was easier than to make her 
forget a source of irritation. Ever better satis- 
fied to look on the bright side of life, her incli- 
nations needed but little aid from conviction to 
turn her from gloomy themes to pleasant ones ; 
and already some of the absurdities of the morn- 
ing were recurring to her mind, and little traits 
of Mrs. Ricketts and her brother were involun- 
tarily coming up through all the whirlpool of 
annoyance and confusion in which they had 
been submerged. 

The coming dinner, too, engrossed some share 
of her thoughts ; for it was a grand entertain- 
ment, to which all Lady Hester’s most distin- 
guished friends were invited. An archduke and 
a cardinal were to make part of the company, 
and Kate looked forward to meeting these great 
personages with no common interest. It was 
less the vulgar curiosity of observing the man- 
ners and bearing of distinguished characters, 
than the delight she felt in following out some 
child-invented narrative of her future life — some 
fancied story of her own career, wherein princes 
and prelates were to figure, and scenes of splen- 
dor and enjoyment to follow each other in rapid 
succession. 




v. 




' * ' 7 ■ V ‘ . - ■ : . " • ;» ■ • * *r 

, • \ ^ ’ ' - . ‘ • . - •’< ■ 

i , ’ / , ^ * % 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

, - ' v *' , ,V * • . • U* i •' 

THE CONCLUSION OF A “GRAND DINNER.” 


fession, we must own that she greatly preferred 


Lady Hester’s dinner of that day was a 
“ grand one” — that is to say, it was one of those 
great displays which, from time to time, are 
offered up as sacrifices to the opinion of the 
world. Few of her own peculiar set were pres- 
ent. Some, she omitted herself; others, had 
begged off of their own accord. Midchikoff, 
however, was there ; for, however accustomed 
to the tone and habits of a life of mere dissipa- 
tion, he possessed every requirement for mixing 
with general society. It was true he was not 
fond of meeting “ Royal Highnesses,” before 
■whom his own equivocal rank sank into insig- 
nificance ; nor did he love “ Cardinals,” whose 
haughty pretensions always overtopped every 
other nobility. To oblige Lady Hester, how- 
ever, he did come, and condescended, for “ the 
nonce,” to assume his most amiable of moods. 
The Marchesa Guardoni, an old coquette of the 
days of the French Empire, but now a rigid 
devotee, and a most exclusive moralist ; a few 
elderly diplomates, of a quiet and cat-like smooth- 
ness of manner ; with certain notabilities of the 
court, made up the party. There were no En- 
glish whatever ; Jekyl, who made out the list, 
well knowing that Florence offered none of a 
rank sufficiently distinguished, except Norwood, 
whose temporary absence from the city was 
rather a boon than the reverse ; for the noble 
viscount, when not “ slang,” was usually silent, 
and, by long intercourse with the turf and its 
followers, had ceased to feel any interest in 
topics which could not end in a wager. 

The entertainment was very splendid. No- 
thing was wanting which luxury or taste could 
contribute. The wines were delicious ; the 
cookery perfect; — the guests were courteous 
and pleasing ; but. all was of the quietest. None 
of the witty sallies, the piquant anecdotes, the 
brilliant repartees, which usually pattered like 
hail around that board. Still less were heard 
those little histories of private life where delin- 
quencies furnish all the interest. The royal 
guest imposed a reserve wffiich the presence of 
the cardinal deepened. The conversation, like 
the cuisine , was flavored for fine palates : both 
were light, suggestive, and of easy digestion. 
Events were discussed, rather than the actors 
in them. All was ease and simplicity ; but it 
was a stately kind of simplicity, which served 
to chill those that were unaccustomed to it. So 
Kate Dalton lelt it ; and, however sad the con- 

K 


the free-and-easy tone of Lady Hester’s mid- 
night receptions to the colder solemnity of these 
distinguished guests. 

Even to the cardinal’s whist-table, every 
thing wore a look of state and solemnity. The 
players laid down their cards with a measured 
gravity, and scored their honors with the air of 
men discharging a high and important function. 
As for the archduke, he sat upon a sofa beside 
Lady Hester, suffering himself to be amused by 
the resources of her small talk, bowing blandly 
at times, occasionally condescending to a smile, 
but rarely uttering even a monosyllable. Even 
that little social warmth that was kindled by 
the dinner-table seemed to have been chilled by 
the drawing-room, where the conversation was 
maintained in a low, soft tone, that never rose 
above a murmur. It may be, perhaps, some 
sort of consolation to little folk to think that 
princes are generally sad-looking. The impass- 
able barrier of reserve around them, if it pro- 
tect from all the rubs and frictions of life, equal- 
ly excludes from much of its genial enjoyment • 
and all those little pleasantries, which grow out 
of intimacy, are denied those who have no equals. 

It was in some such meditation as this Kate 
Dalton sat, roused occasionally to bestow a smile, 
or a passing word of acknowledgment, in return 
for some of those little morsels of compliment 
and flattery which old courtiers pay as their 
rightful tribute to a young and handsome woman* 
She was sufficiently accustomed to this kind of 
homage to accept it, without losing, even for an 
instant, any train of thought her mind was pur- 
suing. Nor did the entrance of any new guest, 
a number of whom had been invited for the 
evening, distract her from her half reverie. 

The salo7is : without being crowded, now 
showed a numerous company, all of whom ex- 
hibited in their demeanor that respectful reserve 
the presence of royalty ever inspires. It seem- 
ed, indeed, as though all the conversation that 
went forward was like a mere “aside” to that 
more important dialogue which was maintained 1 
beside the prince. 

A slow but measured tide of persons passed 
before him, bowing with respectful deference as 
they went. With some, he deigned to speak a 
few words, others had a smile, or a little nod of 
recognition, and some, again, one of those cold 
and vacant stares with which great people are 


146 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


occasionally wont to regard little ones.- His 
royal highness was not one of those accom- 
plished princes whose pride it is to know the 
name, the family, the pursuits, and predilections 
of each new presentee ; on the contrary, he was 
absent, and forgetful to a degree scarcely credi- 
ble — his want of memory betraying him into 
innumerable mistakes, from which, even had he 
known, no adroitness of his own could have ex- 
tricated him. On this evening he had not been 
peculiarly fortunate ; he had complimented a 
minister who had just received his recall in dis- 
grace — he had felicitated a young lady on her 
approaching marriage, which had been broken 
off; while the burden of his talk to Lady Hester 
was in disparagement of those foreigners who 
brought a scandal upon his court by habits and 
manners which would net be tolerated in their 
own countries. Divorce, or even separation, 
met his heavy reprobation : and, while his code 
of morality, on the whole, exhibited very mer- 
ciful dispositions, he bestowed unmitigated se- 
verity upon all that could shock the world’s 
Opinion. 

To this, Lady Hester had to listen as best she 
might — a task not the less trying and difficult 
from the ill-suppressed looks of malice and en- 
joyment she saw on every side. From all these 
causes put together, the occasion, however flat- 
tering to her vanity, was far from being pleas- , 
nrable to her feelings, and she longed for it to 
be over. The prince looked wearied enough, 
but somehow there is nothing like royalty for 
endurance ; their whole lives w'ould seem to 
teach the lesson ; and so he sat on, saying a 
stray word, bowing with half-closed lids, and 
looking as though very little more would set 
him fast asleep. 

It was the very culminating point, of the 
whole evening’s austerity ; one of these little 
pauses, which now and then occur, had suc- 
ceeded to the murmur of conversation. The 
whist-party had been broken up, and the car- 
dinal was slowly advancing up the room, the 
company, even to the ladies, rising respectfully as 
he passed, when the folding-doors were thrown 
wide, and a servant announced Mr. Scroope 
Purvis. 

If the name was unknown to the assembled 
guests, there was one there, at least, who heard 
it with a sensation of actual terror, and poor 
Kate Dalton sank back into her chair with a 
kind of instinctive effort at concealment. By 
this time, the door had closed behind him, leav- 
ing Mr. Purvis standing with an expression of 
no small bewilderment at the gorgeous assem- 
bly into which he had intruded. 

Lady Hester’s quick ear had caught the name, 
even from the furthest end of the room, but, 
while she attributed it to the mis-pronunciations 
of which foreign servants are so liberal, looked 
out with some curiosity for him who owned it. 

Nor had she to look long, for, his first mo- 
ment of surprise over, Purvis put up his double 
eye-glass, and commenced a tour of the rooms, 
in that peculiarly scrutinizing way for which he I 


was distinguished. The fact that all the faces 
were unknown to him seemed to impart addi- 
tional courage to his investigations, for he stared 
about with as little concern as he might have 
done in a theatre. 

Most men in his situation would have been 
egotist enough to have thought only of them- 
selves, and the awkwardness of their own posi- 
tion : Purvis, on the contrary, had an eye for 
every thing — from tbe chandeliers on the walls, 
to the crosses on u* ci — from the 

decorations of the salons to the diamonds — he 
missed nothing ; and with such impartial fair- 
ness did he bestow his glances, that the cardi- 
nal’s cheeks grew red as his own stockings, as 
Scroope surveyed him. At last, he reached the 
end of the great drawing-room, and found him- 
self standing directly in front of the canopied 
seat, where the archduke sat with Lady Hester 
Not heeding, if he even remarked, the little cir- 
cle which etiquette had drawn in front of the 
prince, Purvis advanced within the charmed 
precincts, and stared steadily at the duke. 

“ I perceive that one of your friends is most 
anxious to pay his respects to you, Lady Hes- 
ter,” said the prince, with a very peculiar smile. 

“I beg to assure you, sir, that the gentleman 
is unknown to me ; his presence here is an 
honor for which I am totally unprepared.” 

“ My name is Purvis, madam — Sc — Sc — 
Scroope Purvis : Miss Dalton knows me ; and 
my sister is Mrs. Ricketts.” 

“ You will find Miss Dalton yonder, sir,” said 
Lady Hester, all whose efforts were barely suf- 
ficient to restrain her temper. 

“ I see her,” cried Purvis, putting his glass 
up ; “ but she’s trying to escape me. She’s 
got a man with a re — re — red beard before 
her, but it won’t do — I’m too sh — sh — sharp for 
that.” 

The archduke laughed, and heartily, too, at 
this sally ; and Purvis, emboldened by the com- 
plaisance, edged more closely toward him to 
point out the lady in question. “ She has a droll 
kind of sc — sc — scarf in her hair ; there ! don't 
you see her now? Have you ever seen the 
pictures in the Pitti Palace ?” 

The question was a little startling, as the 
personage to whom it was addressed had his 
residence there. The archduke, however, mere- 
ly bowed in acquiescence, and Purvis went on : 

My sister Zoe copied one — and I like it bet- 
ter than the Ti — Tit — Titian itself. We smoked 
it, too, and made it look so brown, you’d never 
guess it to be mo — mo — mo — modern.” 

To judge from the bewildered look of the 
duke, the whole of this speech was pure Chal- 
dee to him ; and when he turned to Lady Hes- 
ter for an explanation, he discovered that she 
had left her seat. Whether mistaking the mo- 
tion as an invitation to be seated, or merely act- 
ing by his own impulses, Scroope crossed ever 
and sat down on the sofa, with a degree of self- 
satisfaction that lighted up all his features. 

“ You’re not one of the fa — family, are you ?” 
asked he. 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


*' I have not that honor,” said the prince, 
"with a bow. 

‘‘ I thought not. I suspected that there wa 
a tw— tw — twang in your English that looked 
foreign ; but I know your face quite well.” 

The duke bowed acain. 

“Pretty rooms these,” said Purvis, with his 
glass to his eye ; “ what a d — d deal of money 
they must have cost. They’re going it fast, 
these Onslows.” 

“ Indeed !” said the prince, who only half 
understood the remark. 

“ I know it,” said Scroope, with a confiden- 
tial wink. “ Their butcher se — se — serves us, 
and he won’t give any thing till they have sent 
their orders ; and as for wine, they drink Bor- 
deaux in the servants’ hall. I don’t know what 
you have, but a d — d — deuced sight better than 
ever I get.” ■> 

Good wine, however, can be had here, I 
hope,” said the duke, blandly. 

“ Yes, if you sm — sm — smuggle it,” said 
Scroope, with a knowing cackle ; while, to add 
poignancy to the remark, he nudged the prince 
with his elbow. “That’s the only way to have 
it. The st — stupid government sees nothing.” 

“ Is that the case, sir ?” asked the prince, 
with a degree of interest he had not manifested 
before. 

“ To be sure it is : my sister Zoe never pays 
duty on any thing ; and if you like your c — c — 
cigars cheap, just t — t — tell me, that’s all. The 
g — g — grand duke never got a sixpence of my 
money yet, and if I kn — know myself, he never 
shall.” 

“ Do you bear him any grudge, sir, that you 
say this so emphatically?” 

“No — not at all : they tell me that he’s good- 
hearted, although somewhat we — weak in the 
a — a — attic story;” and here Scroope tapped 
his forehead significantly — “ but that’s in the 
family. My sister Zoe could tell you such st — 
stories about them, you’d die laughing ; and 
then there’s Jekyl takes them off so well ! It’s 
c — c — capital fun. He gives a dia — dia — dia- 
logue between the grand duke and the pope’s 
nuncio, that’s better than a farce !” 

How far Mr. Purvis might have been carried 
in his zeal to be agreeable, there is no saying, 
when Lady Hester came up, with Kate leaning 
on her arm. 

“This gentleman claims acquaintance with 
you, Miss Dalton,” said she, haughtily. 

“ Oh, to be sure — she knows me ; and I have 
a letter for her, from her — her fa — father,” said 
Purvis, drawing forth a packet like a post- 
man’s. 

“Miss Dalton would prefer being seated, sir,” 
said Lady Hester, while she motioned toward 
another part of the room. 

“ Yes, yes, of course, we’ll find out a snug 
co — corner somewhere for a chat; just take my 
arm, will you ? Let us get away from all these 
great ‘Dons,’ with their stars and crosses.” 
And, without waiting for Kate s reply, he drew 
her arm within his own, and set out in that lit- 


147 

tie shuffling trot which he always assumed when 
he fancied he had business on hand. 

The ridicule of being associated with such a 
companion would at any other moment have 
overwhelmed Kate Dalton with shame — but 
now, whether from the few words which Lady 
Hester had whispered in her ear, whether the 
fact of his unauthorized appearance, or whether 
it were the dread of some greater disgrace to 
follow, she actually felt a sense of relief in the 
continuous flow of twaddle which he kept up as 
they passed down the room. 

“ Who was that smiled as we passed?” ask- 
ed he. 

“ Prince MidchikofF.” 

“ Oh, that was he, was it? You must in- 
troduce me.” 

“Not now ; pray, not now ; at any other 
time,” cried she, in perfect terror. 

“ Well, but don’t forget it : Zoe would never 
forgive me, if I told her that I lost the op — op — 
opportunity — she wants to know him so very 
much.” 

“Of course, at another time,” said Kate, hur- 
rying him along with increasing speed. 

“ Who’s he ?” asked Purvis, as a tall and 
stately personage bowed blandly to Kate. 

“ The Austrian Minister.” 

“ Not the fellow that st — st — strangled the 
Emperor ? Oh, I forgot : he was a Russian, 
wasn’t he? They got him down, and eh — ch — 
choked him ; ha ! ha ! ha ! There’s a man 
with a red mustache, so like the fellow who 
sells the bou — bou — ‘bouquets’ at the Cascini.” 

“ A Hungarian magnate,” whispered Kate. 

“ Is he, though ? Then let’s have an — an- 
other look at him. He has as many gold-chains 
about him as a shop on the Ponte Yecchio. Zoe 
would like him, he’s so odd !” 

At last, but not without great efforts, Kate 
succeeded in reaching a small chamber, where 
two others already were seated, and whose fig- 
ures were undistinguishable in the obscurity of 
a studiously-shaded lamp. 

“Isn’t it strange, she never asked for Zoe ?” 
said Purvis, as he took his seat on a sofa ; “ not 
to inquire for a person sick under her own r — 
r — roof ?” 

“ Lady Hester is not acquainted with Mrs. 
Ricketts.” 

“ Well, but sh — sh — she ought to be. Zoe 
made a party for her — a d — d — dinner-party ; 
and had Hagg — Haggerstone, and Foglass, and 
the rest of them. And, after all, you know, 
they are only b — bankers, these Onslows, and 
needn’t give themselves airs.” 

“ You have a letter for me, Mr. Purvis ? will 
you pardon my impatience — ” 

“ Yes, to be sure. I’ve a letter, and an in- 
closure in it, too; at least, it feels crisp like 
a note — a bank note ; that’s the reason you’re 
impatient ; perhaps the re — re — remittance was 
long a — coming — eh ?” 

Kate made no reply to this speech, but her 
cheek grew scarlet as she heard it. 

Purvis, meanwhile, spread his packet of pa- 


148 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


pers before him, and began his search for Dal- 
ton’s letter. 

“No, that ain’t it; that’s from Foglass — all 
about Norwood, and his N — N — Newmarket af- 
fair. That’s a letter from Lord Gullston’s valet, 
with such a droll ac — account of the whole family. 
Zoe recom — mended him ; and the poor fellow’s 
very grateful, for he writes about all that goes 
on in the house. Lady G., it seems, has the 
temper of a f — f — fiend. Well, don’t be im — im- 
patient — I’ll find your father’s letter in a minute. 
He writes such a cr — cr — cramp old hand, one 
should detect it at once. I ta — take it that he’s 
a bit of a character, the old gen — gentleman. 
I’m sure he is; but what have I done with his 
letter ? Oh ! here it is ! here it is ! and ‘ with 
haste’ written on the corner, too.” 

Kate caught the letter impatiently, and, with- 
out any thought for Purvis or the place, tore it / 
open at once. In doing so, the inclosure fell 
to the ground without her perceiving it; and, 
stranger still, it escaped the attention of Purvis ; 
but that worthy man, not exactly venturing to 
read over her shoulder, had established himself 
directly in front, where, with his double eye- 
glass, he scanned every change in her features 
during the perusal. 

“ All well at home, I hope, eh ? How she 
changes color,” muttered he to himself; “ No- 
body ill — nobody dead, eh?” asked he, louder. 
“It must be something serious, though — she’s 
trembling like ague. Let me give you a chair 
— that is, if I can f — find one in this little den ; 
they’ve got nothing but d — divans all round it.” 
And he hurried forth into the larger salon in 
search of a seat. 

It was not without considerable trouble to 
himself and inconvenience to various others that 
he at last succeeded, and returned to the boudoir 
w T ith a massive arm-chair in his hands ; but what 
was his dismay to find that Miss Dalton had 
made her escape in the mean w r hile. In vain 
did he seek her through the salons , which now 
were rapidly thinning, the distinguished guests 
having already departed. 

A stray group lingered here and there, con- 
versing in a low tone ; and around the fires w T ere 
gathered little knots of ladies, muffled and cloak- 
ed, and only waiting for the carriages. It was 
like a stage, when the performance was over ! 
Scarcely deigning to notice the little man, who, 
with palpable keenness of scrutiny, pursued his 
search in every quarter, they gradually moved 
off, leaving Purvis alone to tread the “ banquet- 
hall deserted.” The servants, as they extin- 
guished the lights, passed and repassed him 
without remark ; so that, defeated and disap- 
pointed. he was obliged at last to retire, sorrow- 
fully confessing to his own heart how little suc- 
cess had attended his bold enterprise. 

As he passed along the galleries and descend- 
ed the stairs, he made various little efforts to 
open a conversation with some one or other of 
the servants; but these dignified officials re- 
sponded to his questions in the driest and short- 
est manner ; and it was only as he reached the 


! great gate of the palace that he chanced upon 
I one courteous enough to hear him to the end in 
! his oft-repeated question of “ Who was th — 
th — that with the large st — st — star on his breast, 
and a wh — wh — white beard ?” 

The porter stared at the speaker, and said, 
respectfully, 

“ The signor probably means the archduke ?” 

“Not the Archduke Fr — Fr — Fr — ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said the man, and closed the 
heavy door after him, leaving Purvis in a state 
of astonishment, and as much shame as his na- 
ture permitted him to feel. Neither upon him- 
self nor his sensations have we any intention to 
dwell ; and leaving him to pursue his way home- 
ward, we beg to return once more within those 
walls from which he had just taken his de- 
parture. ^ 

If Lady Hester’s grand company had gone, 
the business of the evening was by no means 
over; on the contrary, it was the hour of her 
night receptions, and now the accustomed guests 
of those favored precincts came dropping in from 
theatres, and operas, and late dinners. These 
men of pleasure looked jaded and tired, as 
usual ; and, except the little tinkling sounds of 
Jekyl’s small treble, no other voice sounded as 
they walked along the corridors. 

When they entered Lady Hester’s boudoir, 
they found that lady recounting to Midchikoff 
the whole circumstances of the morning’s ad- 
venture — a recital which she continued without 
other interruption than a smile or a nod, or a 
little gesture of the hand, to each of the new ar- 
rivals as he came in. If the lady’s manner was 
devoid of all ceremony, that of the gentlemen 
was less ceremonious still, for they stretched 
themselves on divans, rested their legs upon 
chairs, and stood back to the fire, with a degree 
of careless ease that bespoke them thoroughly 
at home ; Jekyl, perhaps, the only one present 
who mingled with this freedom a certain cour- 
teous respect that no familiarity made him ever 
forget. 

“And they are still here?” asked the prince 
— “actually in the house at this moment?” 

“ At this very moment !” responded she, em- 
phatically. 

“The whole thing passes belief,” exclaimed he. 

And now the listless loungers drew their 
chairs closer, to hear the story, and laugh, as 
men do who are seldom moved to mirth save 
when ridicule or malice are the provocatives. 

“But you hav’n’t heard the worst yet,” said 
Midchikoff. “ Pray tell them of your visitor of 
this evening.” 

And Lady Hester narrated the appearance of 
Mr. Purvis, who, having secured his entrance 
by a visit to his sister, had so unceremoniously 
presented himself in the drawing-room. 

“ Heaven knows what he said to his royal 
highness when I was away. To judge from his 
face, it must have been something atrocious ; 
and the last thing he said on leaving was, C I 
must try and not forget your agreeable friend’s 
name.’ ” 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 14'J 


M You might as well have invited me, as have 
had your 1 friend 5 Purvis, after all,” said a young 
Italian noble, whose political opinions found no 
favor at court. 

u But what do you mean to do, my lady ?” 
asked Midchikoff. “Is the enemy to hold un- 
disputed possession of the fortress ?” 

“It is precisely on that point I want advice, 
prince.” 

“ What if we form ourselves into a council 
of state ?” said an Austrian general. 

“ By all means,” said the others, who now 
formed a semicircle in front of Lady Hester’s 
sofa.' 

“ The youngest officer always speaks first,” 
said the Austrian. 

“ Then that duty is mine,” said a little man 
of about eighty-two or three, and who had rep- 
resented France at half the courts of Europe. “ I 
should advise a protocol in the form of protest. 
It is a palpable invasion of territor}^, but, fol- 
lowed by an ample apology and a speedy evac- 
uation, may be forgiven. There are historical 
warrants for such transgressions being accepted 
as acts almost of compulsion.” 

“ The case of Anspach, for instance,” said 
the Austrian, with a malicious smile. 

“Precisely, general — precisely a case in 
point,” rejoined the old diplomate, with a bow 
and a smile that almost seemed grateful. “ The 
shortest road to victory is ever the best.” 

“ Let’s try a fever or a fire ; by Jove ! the 
sacrifice of a few chairs and window-curtains 
would be a cheap alternative,” said George 
Onslow. 

“ Why not essay a compromise, my lady ?” 
Interposed a yodng German secretary of lega- 
tion *, “ a mixed garrison, like that of Rastadt.” 

“ Lady Hester’s troops to mount guard al- 
ternately with the Ricketts’ ! Downright trea- 
son — base treason !” exclaimed another. 

“ What would you think of a special mission, 
my lady ?” simpered Jekyl. “ It would at least 
serve to enlighten us as to the views of the 
enemy. The discussion of the past often throws 
much light on the future.” 

“ Jekyl wants to earn a decoration,” said an- 
other, laughing ; “ he intends to be the envoy 
himself.” 

“ I’ll wager that I know MidchikofT’s policy,” 
said a young Sicilian, who always spoke with a 
frank fearlessness that is most rare with other 
Italians. 

“ Well, let us hear it,” said the prince, 
gravely. < 

“ You would counsel the national expedient 
of retiring before the enemy, and making the 
country too cold to # hold them?” 

“ How absurd,” said Lady Hester, half an- 
grily ; “ give up one’s house to a set of people 
who have had the impertinence to intrude them- 
selves unasked !” 

“ And yet Giasconi is right,” said the prince. 
“ It is the best suggestion we have heard yet. 
Hostilities imply, to a certain extent, equality ; 
negotiation is an acknowledgment of acquaint- 


anceship ; a dignified retreat, however, avoids 
either difficulty.” 

“In that case, let’s starve them out,” said 
George. “ Suffer no supplies to be thrown into 
the place, and exact the most humble terms of 
submission.” 

“ Then, where to go to ? that’s another ques- 
tion,” said Lady Hester. 

“ His eminence expects to see you in Rome,” 
whispered the abbe, who had waited for an op- 
portunity for the suggestion. “ I believe he re- 
lies on a promise.” 

“Very true; but not just yet. Besides, the 
season is almost over,” said Lady Hester, with 
a slight degree of confusion. 

“Don’t be frightened, abbe,” whispered Je- 
kyl in D’Esmonde’s ear. “ Her ladyship is as- 
suredly ‘going to Rome’ later on.” 

The priest smiled, with an expression that 
told how fully he comprehended the phrase. 

“ There’s a little villa of mine, on the Lake 
of Como, very much at your service,” said Mid- 
chikoff, with the easy indifference of one sug- 
gesting something perfectly indifferent to him. 

“ Do you mean La Rocca, prince ?” asked 
the Sicilian. 

“Yes. They tell me it is prettily situated, 
but I’ve never seen it. The empress passed a 
few weeks there last year, and liked it,” said 
Midchikoff, languidly. 

“ Really, prince, if I don’t know how to ac- 
cept, I am still more at a loss for power to re- 
fuse your offer.” 

“When will you go?” said he, dryly, and 
taking out his memorandum-book to write. 

“What says Mr. Jekyl?” said Lady Hester, 
turning to that bland personage, who, without 
apparently attending to what went forward, had 
heard every syllable of it. 

“This is Tuesday,” said Jekyl. “There’s 
not much to be done ; the villa wants for nothing 
— I know it perfectly.” 

“ Ah ! it’s comfortable, then ?” said the prince, 
with a slight degree of animation. 

“ La Rocca is all that Contarete’s taste could 
make it?” replied Jekyl. 

“ Poor Contarete ! he was an excellent mai- 
tre d’hotel,” said Midchikoff. “ He’s still with 
me, somewhere — I rather believe in Tartary, 
just now.” 

“ Your ladyship may leave this on Thursday,” 
said Jekyl, who well knew that he was paying 
the most flattering compliment to Midchikoff in 
naming the shortest possible time for prepara- 
tion. 

“ Will this be inconvenient, prince ?” asked 
Lady Hester. 

“ No ; not in the least. If Jekyl will precede 
you by a couple of hours, I trust all will be 

readv.” 

vVith your permission, then, we will say 
Thursday,” said she, who, with her habitual de- 
light in novelty, was already wild with pleasure 
at the whole scheme. 

“ Perhaps I’ll come and visit you,” said Mid- 
chikoff; “ I shall have to go to Vienna soon.” 


I 


150 THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Lady Hester bowed and smiled her acknowl- 
edgments for this not over-gracious speech. 

“May we follow you, too, Lady Hester?” 
asked the Sicilian. 

“We expect that much from your loyalty, 
gentlemen. Our exile will test your fidel- 
ity.” 

“ There’s something or other inconvenient 
about the stables,” said Midchikoff, “ but I for- 
get what it is ; they are up a mountain, or down 
in a valley. I don’t remember it, but the em- 
peror said it was wrong, and should be changed.” 

“They are on the opposite side of the lake, 
prince,” interposed Jekyl, “ and you must cross 
over to your carriage by boat.” 

“ Oh, delightful — quite delightful !” exclaim- 
ed Lady Hester, with childish joy, at the nov- 
elty. 

“ La Rocca is on a little promontory,” said 
Jekyl, “only approachable from the water, for 
the mountain is quite inaccessible.” 

“You shall have a road made, if you wish 
it,” said the prince, languidly. 

“On no account — I wouldn’t for the world 
destroy the isolation of the spot.” 



“Do you happen to remember, Mr. Jekyl, if 
there be any pictures there ?” 

“There are some perfect gems, by Greuze.” 

“ Oh ! that’s where they are, is it ? I could 
never call to mind where they were left.” 

The conversation now became general, in dis- 
cussing Lady Hester’s change of abode, the life 
they should all lead when on the lake, and the 
innumerable stories that would be circulated to 
account for her sudden departure. This same 
mystery was not the least agreeable feature of 
the whole, and Lady Hester never wearied iu 
talking of all the speculations her new step was 
certain to originate ; and although some of the 
company regretted the approaching closure of 
a house which formed the resource of every 
evening, others were not sorry at the prospect 
of any thing which offered a change to the mo- 
notony of their lives. 

“ You’ll come to breakfast to-morrow, Mr. Je- 
kyl,” said Lady Hester, as he followed the depart- 
ing guests. “ I shall want you the -whole day.” 

He bowed with his hand to his heart, and 
never did features of like mould evince a deeper 
aspect -if devotion. ^ f. 

•>' • N .. , l our- 

, c . • , ** * % 

• i . * 

Z'J * . • - | * ' 

/ - . * ' « 

. * . , 4 r ? 




c • 





CHAPTER XXXIV. 

1 ' “ tl ’.'s'' i ' - 

, JEKYL’S COUNSELS. 


One of the most striking characteristics of 
our present age is the singular mixture of fri- 
volity and seriousness — the almost absurd con- 
trast between grave inquiry and reckless dissi- 
pation, which pervades the well-to-do classes. 
Never was there a period when merely sensual 
gratification was more highly prized and paid 
for ; and never, perhaps, a time when every 
rank in life was more eager in the pursuit of 
knowledge. To produce this state of things a 
eertain compromise was necessary, and while 
the mere man of pleasure affected a taste for 
literature and politics, the really active-minded 
either sought his relaxation, or extended his in- 
fluence, by mingling in scenes of frivolity and 
amusement. 

The age which made dandies philosophers, 
made lord chancellors droll, and bishops eccen- 
tric. A paradoxical spirit was abroad, and it 
seemed to be a matter of pride with every one, 
to do something out of his station. The whole 
temper of society, and the tone of conversation, 
exhibited this new taste. 

Lady Hester Onslow was not a bad specimen 
of the prevailing mania. There was by nature 
a certain fidgety, capricious volatility about her, 
that defied any thing like a regular pursuit, or 
a continued purpose. With a reasonably quick 
apprehension and no judgment, in being every 
thing, she became nothing. Always mistaking 
sympathies for convictions, it was quite suffi- 
cient to interest her imagination, to secure her 
adhesion, not, indeed, that it was worth much 
when obtained, seeing that she was but a feeble 
ally at the best. Her employment of the day 
w T as a type of herself. The mornings were 
passed in mesmeric experiences with her doc- 
tor, or what she fancied were theological dis- 
eussions with the Abbe d’Esmonde. It would 
be difficult to say in which the imaginative ex- 
altation more predominated. All the authentic 
and incredible phenomena of the one, all the 
miraculous pretensions of the other, were too 
little for a credulity that stopped at nothing. 
Of second sight, remote sympathy, and saintly 
miracles, she never could hear enough ! “ Give 

me facts,” she would say; by which she meant 
narratives. “ I will have no theories, doctor.” 
“ Don’t bear me down with arguments, Mons. 
l’Abbe.” “Facts, and facts alone have any 
influence w T ith me.” 

Now, such facts as she asked for were easily 
obtainable, and the greatest miser need not have 
grudged her an ample meal of them. Many 
of the facts, too, possessed the pleasing feature 
of being personal in their interest. One day, it 


was a charming young patient of the doctor, 
who, having touched a tress of Lady Hester’s 
hair, made the most astonishing revelations of 
her ladyship’s disposition; telling facts of her 
feelings, her nature, and even her affections, 
that lk she knew were only confided to her own 
heart.” Various little incidents of her daily 
life were foretold, even to such minute matters 
as the purchase of articles of jewelry, which 
she had not even seen at the time, and only met 
her eyes by accident afterward. The abbe, 
with equal success, assured her of the intense 
interest taken in her by the Church. Beauti- 
fully-bound and richly-illustrated books w T ere 
offered to her, with the flattering addition, that 
prayers were then being uttered at many a 
shrine for her enlightenment in their perusal. 
Less asked to conform herself to a new belief, 
than to reconcile the faith to her own notions, 
she was given the very widest latitude to her 
opinions. If she grew impatient at argument, 
a subtle illustration, an apt metaphor, or some- 
times a happy “mo/,” settled the question. 
The abbe was a clever talker, and varied his 
subjects with all the skill of a master. He 
knew how to invoke to his aid all that poetry, 
art, and romance could contribute. The theme 
was a grand one when the imagination was to be 
interested, and really deserved a better listener, 
for, save when the miraculous interposition of 
saints, or the gaudy ceremonials of the Church 
were spoken of, she heard the subject with 
indifference, if not apathy. The considera- 
tion of self could, however, always bring her 
back ; and it was ever a successful flattery to 
assure her how fervently such a cardinal prayed 
for her “right-mindedness,” and how eagerly 
even his Holiness looked forward to the moment 
of counting her among his children. 

Her very tastes — those same tastes that ascet- 
ic Protestantism was always caviling at — were 
beautifully Roman. The Church liked display. 
Witness her magnificence and splendor, her 
glorious cathedrals, the pomp and grandeur of 
her ceremonial ! As to music, the choir of the 
“Duomo” was seraphic, and needed not the 
association of the dim, vaulted aisles, the dis- 
tant altar, and the checkered rays of stained- 
glass windows, to wrap the soul in a fervor of 
enthusiasm. Even Beauty was cherished by 
the Church, and the fair Madonnas were types 
of an admiring love that was beautifully catholic 
in its w r orship. 

With all this, the w r ork of conversion was a 
Penelope’s web, that must each day be begun 
anew, for, as the hour of the Cascini drew nigh, 


152 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Lady Hesters carriage drew up, and mesmer- 
ism, miracles, and all gave way to the fresher 
interests of courtly loungers, chit-chats, and 
“ bouquets of camelias.” * j 

For the next hour or so, her mind was occu- 
pied with the gossiping stories of Florentine 
life, its surface details all recounted by the sim- 
pering dandies who gathered around her car- 
riage : its deeper — not unfrequently darker his- 
tories — being the province of Mr. Albert Jekyl. 
Then home to luncheon, for, as Haggerstone 
related, she dined always after the Opera, and 
it was then, somewhere verging on midnight, 
that she really began to live. Then, in all the 
blaze of dress and jewels, with beauty little 
impaired by years, and a manner the perfection 
of that peculiar school to which she attached 
herself, she was indeed a most attractive person. 

Kate Dalton’s life was, of course, precisely 
the same. Except the few hours given to 
controversial topics, and which she passed in 
reading, and the occasional change from driving 
to riding in the Caseini, Kate’s day was exactly 
that of her friend. Not, however, with the 
same results ; for while one was wearied with 
the tame routine of unvarying pleasure, tired 
of the monotonous circle of amusement, thet 
other became each day more and more enam- 
ored of a life so unchanging in its happiness. 
What was uniformity to Lady Hester, imparted 
a sense of security to Kate. It was not alone 
the splendor that surrounded her, the thousand 
objects of taste and elegance that seemed to 
multiply around them, that captivated her so 
much ; it was the absence of all care, the free- 
dom from every thought that this state was a 
mere passing one. This Kate felt to be the 
very highest of enjoyments, and when at night 
she whispered to herself, “To-morrow will be 
like to-day,” she had said every thing that 
could brighten anticipation. 

Her father’s letter was the first shock to this 
delightful illusion ! Her own false position of 
splendor, in contrast to his poverty, now came 
up palpably before her, and in place of those 
blissful reveries in which she often passed hours, 
there rose to her mind the bitter self-accusings 
of a penitent spirit. She never slept during 
the night ; the greater part of it she spent in 
tears. Her absence from home, brief as it was, 
was quite enough to make her forget much of 
its daily life. She could, it is true, recall the 
penury and the privation, but not the feelings 
that grew out of them. How changed must he 
have become to stoop to this ! was the exclama- 
tion that she uttered again and again. Where 
was all that Dalton pride they used to boast of? 
What became of that family dignity which once 
was their bulwark against every blow of fortune? 

To these thoughts succeeded the sadder one, 
of, what course remained for her to adopt ? 
A difficulty the greater, since she but half un- 
derstood what was required of her. He spoke 
of bill, and yet the letter contained none ; be- 
fore she broke the seal, it felt as though there 
was an inclosure, yet she found none 5 and if 


1 there were, of what use would it be ? It was 
perfectly impossible that she could approach 
Sir Stafford with such a request p every sense 
of shame, delicacy, and self-respect revolted at 
the very thought. Still less could she apply to 
Lady Hester, whose extravagant and wasteful 
habits always placed her in want of money, 
and yet to refuse her father on grounds which 
he would deem purely selfish, was equally out 
of the question. She well knew that in a mo- 
ment of anger and impatience — stung by what 
he would call the ingratitude of his children — - 
he would probably himself write to Sir Stafford, 
narrating every circumstance that drove him 
to the step. Oh, that she had never left him 
— never ceased to live the life of want ahd 
hardship to which time had accustomed her; 
all the poverty she had ever known brought no 
such humiliation as this ! Poor Nelly’s lot now 
was a hundred-fold superior to hers. She saw, 
too, that reserve once broken on such a theme, 
her father would not scruple to renew the ap- 
plication as often as he needed money. It was 
clear enough that he saw no embarrassment, 
nor any difficulty for her in the matter; that it 
neither could offend her feelings, nor compro- 
mise her position. Could she descend to an 
evasive or equivocal reply, his temper would 
as certainly boil over, and an insulting letter 
would at once be addressed to Sir Stafford. 
Were she to make the request and fail, he 
would order her home, and under what circum- 
stances should she leave the house of her bene- 
factors ! And yet all this was better than 
success. 

In such harassing reflections warring and 
jarring in her mind, the long hours of the night 
were passed. She wept, too; the bitterest 
tears are those that are wrung from shame 
and sorrow mingled. Many a generous resolve, 
many a thought of self-devotion and sacrifice 
rose to her mind ; at moments, she would have 
submitted herself to any wound to self-esteem 
to have obtained her father’s kind word , and at 
others, all the indignity of a false position over- 
whelmed her; and she cried as if her very 

heart were bursting. 

© 

Wearied and fevered, she arose and went into 
the garden. It was one of the brilliant morn- 
ings which— »-for a week or ten days, in Italy— 
represent the whole season of spring. Although 
still early, the sun was hot, and the flowers 
and shrubs, refreshed by the heavy dew, were 
bursting out into renewed luxuriance in the 
warm glow. The fountains sparkled, and the 
birds were singing, and all seemed animated by 
that joyous spirit which seems the very breath 
of early morning. All save poor Kate, who, 
with bent-down head and slow step, loitered 
along the walks, lost in her gloomiest thoughts. 

To return home again was the only issue she 
could see to her difficulties, to share the humble 
fortunes of her father and sister, away from a 
world in which she had no pretension to live ! 
And this, too, just when that same world had 
cast its fascinations round her — just when it< 


153 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


blandishments had gained possession of her 
heart, and made her feel that all without its 
pale was ignoble and unworthy. No other 
course seemed, however, to offer itself, and she 
had just determined on its adoption, when the 
short, quick step of some one following her, 
made her turn her head. As she did so, her 
name was pronounced, and Mr. Albert Jekyl, 
with his hat courteously removed, advanced 
toward her. 

“I see with what care Miss Dalton protects 
the roses of her cheeks,” said he, smiling ; “and 
yet how few there are that know this simple 
secret.” 

“ You give me a credit I have no claim to, 
Mr. Jekyl. I have almost forgotten the sight 
of a rising sun, but this morning I did not feel 
quite well — a headache — a sleepless night — ” 

“ Perhaps caused by anxiety,” interposed he, 
quietly. “ I wish I had discovered your loss in 
time, but I only detected that it must be yours, 
when I reached home.” 

“ I don’t comprehend you,” said she, with 
some hesitation. 

“Is not this yours, Miss Dalton?” said he, 
producing the bill, which had fallen unseen 
from her father’s letter. “ I found it on the 
floor of the small boudoir, and not paying much 
attention to it at the time, did not perceive the 
signature, which would at once have betrayed 
the ownership.” 

“ It must have dropped from a letter I was 
reading,” said Kate, whose cheek was now 
scarlet, for she knew Jekyl well enough to be 
certain that her whole secret was by that time 
in his hands. Slighter materials than this would 
have sufficed for his intelligence to construct a 
theory upon. Nothing in his manner, however, 
evinced this knowledge, for he handed her the 
paper with an air of most impassive quietude, 
wlqle, as if to turn her thoughts from any un- 
pleasantness of the incident, he said, 

“ You hav’n’t yet heard, I suppose, of Lady 
Hester’s sudden resolve to quit Florence?” 

“ Leave Florence ! and for where ?” asked 
she, hurriedly. 

“ For Midchikoff’s villa at Como. We dis- 
cussed it all last night after you left, and in 
twenty-four hours we are to be on the road.” 

“ What is the reason of this hurried depart- 
ure ?” 

“ The "Ricketts’ invasion gives the pretext ; 
but of course you know better than I do what 
a share the novelty of the scheme lends to its 
attractions.” 

“ And we are to leave this to-morrow !” said 
Kate, rather to herself than for her companion. 

Jekyl marked well the tone and the expres- 
sion of the speaker, but said not a word. 

Kate stood for a few seconds lost in thought. 
Her difficulties were thickening around her, and 
not a gleam of light shone through the gloomy 
future before her. At last, as it were over- 
powered by the torturing anxieties of her situa- 
tion, she covered her face with her hands to hide 
the tears that would gush forth in spite of her. 


“ Miss Dalton will forgive me,” said Jekyl, 
speaking in a low and most respectful voice, 
“ if I step for once from the humble path I havo 
tracked for myself in life, and offer my poor 
services as her adviser.” 

Nothing could be more deferential than the 
speech, or the way in which it was uttered, and 
yet Kate heard it with a sense of pain. She 
felt that her personal independence was already 
in peril, and that the meek and bashful Mr. 
Jekyl had gained a mastery over her. He saw 
all this — he read each struggle of her mind — • 
and, were retreat practicable, he would have 
retreated, but, the step once taken, the only 
course was, “ forward.” 

“ Miss Dalton may reject my counsels, but she 
will not despise the devotion in which they are 
proffered. A mere accident” — here he glanced 
at the paper which she still held in her fingers 
— “ a mere accident has shown me that you 
have a difficulty ; one for which neither your 
habits nor knowledge of life can suggest the so- 
lution.” He paused, and a very slight nod from 
Kate emboldened him to proceed. “ Were it not 
so, Miss Dalton ? — were the case one for which 
your own exquisite tact could suffice, I never 
would have ventured on the liberty. I, who 
have watched you with wondering admiration, 
directing and guiding your course amid shoals, 
and reefs, and quicksands, where the most skill- 
ful might have found shipwreck, it would have 
been hardihood indeed for me to have offered my 
pilotage. But here, if I err not greatly, here 
is a new and unknown sea, and here I may be 
of service to you.” 

“Is it so plain, then, what all this means?” 
said Kate, holding out the bill toward Jekyl. 

“ Alas ! Miss Dalton,” said he, with a faint 
smile, “ these are no enigmas to us who mix in 
all the worries and cares of life.” 

“Then how do you read the riddle,” said 
she, almost laughing at the easy flippancy of 
histone. 

“Mr. Dalton being an Irish gentleman cf a 
kind disposition and a facile temper, suffers his 
tenantry to run most grievously into arrear. 
They won’t pay, and he won’t make them ; his 
own creditors having no sympathy with such 
proceedings, become pressing and importunate. 
Mr. Dalton grows angry, and they grow irrita- 
ble ; he makes his agent write to them — they 
‘ instruct’ their attorney to write to him. Mr. 
D. is puzzled, and were it not that — but may I 
go on ?” 

“ Of course ; proceed,!’ said she, smiling. 

“You’ll not be offended, though?” said he, 
“ because, if I have not the privilege of being 
frank, I shall be worthless to you.” 

“ There is no serious offense without inten- 
tion.” 

“ Very true ; but I do not wish there should 
be even a trivial transgression.” 

“ I am not afraid. Go on,” said she, nodding 
her head. 

“ Where was I, then ? Oh ! I remember. 
I said that Mr. Dalton, seeing difficulties thick- 


154 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


erring and troubles gathering, suddenly bethinks 
him that he has a daughter, a young lady of 
such attractions that, in a society where wealth, 
and splendor, and rank hold highest place, her 
beauty has already established a dominion which 
nothing, save her gentleness, prevents being a 
despotism.” 

“ Mr. Jekyl mistakes the part of friend when 
he becomes flatterer.” 

“ There is no flattery in a plain, unadorned 
truth,” said he, hastily. 

“ And were it all as you say,” rejoined she, 
speaking with a heightened color and a flashing 
eye, “how could such circumstances be linked 
with those you spoke of?” 

“ Easily enough, if I did but dare to tell it,” 
was his reply. , 

“ It is too late for reserve ; go on freely,” 
said she, with a faint sigh. 

Jekyl resumed : 

“ Mr. Dalton knows — there are thousands 
could have told him so — that his daughter may 
be a princess to-morrow if she wishes it. She 
has but to choose her rank and her nationality, 
and there is not a land in Europe in whose 
peerage she may not inscribe her name. It is 
too late for reserve,” said he, quickly, “ and con- 
sequently too late for resentment. You must 
not be angry with me now ; I am but speaking 
in your presence what all the world says behind 
your back. Hearing this, and believing it, as 
all believe it, what is there more natural, than 
that he should address himself to her, at whose 
disposal lie all that wealth can compass ? The 
sun bestows many a gleam of warmth and 
brightness before he reaches the zenith. Do 
not mistake me. This request was scarcely 
fair; it was ill-advised. Your freedom should 
never have been jeoparded for such a mere trifle. 
Had your father but seen with his own eyes 
your position here, he would never have done 
this; but, being done, there is no harm in it.” 

“ But what am I to do?” said Kate, trem- 
bling with embarrassment and vexation together. 

“ Send the money, of course,” said he, coolly. 

“ But how — from what source ?” 

“Your own benevolence; none other,” said 
he, as calmly. “ There is no question of a 
favor ; no stooping to an obligation necessary. 
You will simply give your promise to repay it 
at some future day, not specifying when ; and I 
will find the banker but too happy to treat with 
you.” ' ( 

“ But what prospect have I of such ability to 
pay ; what resources can I reckon upon?” 

“ You will be angry, if I repeat myself,” said 
Jekyl, with deep humility. 

“ I am already angry with myself that I 
should have listened to your proposal so indulg- 
ently ; my troubles must, indeed, have affected 
me deeply when I so far forgot myself.” 

Jekyl dropped his head forward on his breast, 
and looked a picture of sorrow ; after a while 
he said, 

“Sir Stafford Onslow would, I well know, 
but be honored by your asking him the slight 


favor; but I could not counsel you to do so. 
Your feelings would have to pay too severe a 
sacrifice, and hence I advise making it a mere 
business matter ; depositing some ornament — a 
necklace you were tired of ; a bracelet ; any 
thing; in fact — a nothing; and thus there is 
neither a difficulty nor a disclosure.” 

“I have scarcely any thing,” said Kate; and 
what I have, have been all presents from Lady 
Hester.” 

“ Morlache would be quite content with your 
word,” said Jekyl, blandly. 

“ And if I should be unable to acquit the 
debt, will these few things I possess be sufficient 
to do it?” 

“ I should say double the amount, as a mere 
guess.” • 1 - . 

“Can I — dare I take your counsel?” cried 
she, in an accent of intense anxiety. 

“ Can you reject it, when refusal will be so 
bitter ?” c 

Kate gave a slight shudder, as though that 
pang was greater than all the rest. 

“ There is fortunately no difficulty, in the 
matter whatever,” said Jekyl, speaking rapidly. 
“ You will, of course, have many things to pur- 
chase before you leave this. Well ; take the 
carriage and your maid, and drive to the Ponte 
Vecchio. The last shop on the right-hand side 
of the bridge is ‘ Morlache’s.’ It is unpromis- 
ing enough outside, but there is wealth within 
to subsidize a kingdom. I will be in waiting to 
receive you, and in a few minutes the whole 
will be concluded ; and if you have your letter 
ready, you can inclose the sum, and post it at 
once.” 

If there were many things in this arrange- 
ment which shocked Kate, and revolted against 
her sense of delicacy and propriety, there was 
one counterpoise more than enough to outweigh 
them all. “ She should be enabled to serve her 
father” — she, who alone of all his children had 
never contributed, save by affection, to his com- 
fort, should now materially assist him. She 
knew too well the sufferings and anxieties his 
straitened fortune cost him — she witnessed but 
too often the half-desperation in which he would 
pass days, borne down and almost broken-heart- 
ed ! and she had witnessed that outbreak of joy 
he would indulge in when an unexpected help 
had suddenly lifted him from the depth of his 
poverty. To be the messenger of such good 
tidings — to be associated in his mind with this 
assistance — to win his fervent “ God bless you !” 
she would have put life itself in peril, and when 
Jekyl placed so palpably before her the prompt- 
itude with which the act could be accomplished, 
all hesitation ceased, and she promised to be 
punctual at the appointed place by three o’clock 
that same afternoon. 

“ It is too early to expect to see Lady Hes- 
ter,” said Jekyl; “and, indeed, my real busi- 
ness here this morning was with yourself, so 
that now I shall drive out to Midchikoff’s and 
make all the arrangements about the villa. 
Till three, then, good-by !” 


155 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“Good-by / 5 said Kate, for the first time dis- 
posed to feel warmly to the little man, and half 
reproach herself with some of the prejudices she 
used to entertain regarding him. 


Jekyl now took his way to the stables, and 
ordering a brougham to be got ready for him, 
sauntered into the house, and took his coffee 
while he waited. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“RACCA MORLACHE.” 


There is something of medieval look and 
air about the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, which 
gives it a peculiar interest to the traveler. The 
quaint little low shops on either side, all glitter- 
ing with gold and gems — the gorgeous tiaras 
of diamonds — the richly-enameled cups and vases 
aside of the grotesque ornaments of peasant cos- 
tume — the cumbrous ear-rings of stamped gold 
— the old-fashioned clasps and buckles of mass- 
ive make — the chains fashioned after long-for- 
gotten models — the strings of Oriental pearls, 
costly and rare enough for queens to wear — 
are all thrown about in a rich profusion, curious- 
ly in contrast to the humble sheds — for they are 
little more — that hold them. 

The incessant roll of equipages — the crowd 
and movement of a great city — the lingering 
peasant, gazing with rapturous eyes at the 
glittering wares — the dark Israelitish face that 
peers from within — the eveivflowing tide of 
population of every rank, and age, and country, 
giving a bustle and animation to the scene, so 
beautifully relieved by the view that opens on 
the centre of the bridge, and where, in a vacant 
space, the Arno is seen wending peacefully 
alonji, and scattering its circling eddies beneath 
the graceful arches of the “Santa Trinita;” 
that little glimpse of hill, and vineyard, and 
river, the cypress-clad heights of San Miniato, 
and the distant mountain of Vallombrosa, more 
beautiful far than all the gold Pactolus ever 
rolled, or all the gems that ever glittered on 
crown or coronet. 

There was one stall at the end of the bridge, 
so bumble-looking, and so scantily provided, that 
no stranger was seen to linger beside it. A 
few coral ornaments for peasant wear, some 
stamped medals for pious use, and some of those 
little silver tokens hung up by devout hands as 
votive offerings at a holy shrine, were all that 
appeared, while, as if to confirm the impression 
of the scanty traffic that went on, the massive 
door was barred and bolted like the portal of a 
prison; an almost erased inscription, unrenewed 
lor nigh half a century, told that this was the 
shop of “ Racca Morlaehe.” 

There may have been much of exaggeration 
in the stories that went of the Jew’s enormous 


wealth ; doubtless, many of the accounts were 
purely fabulous ; but one fact is certain, that 
from that lowly roof went forth sums sufficient 
to maintain the credit of many a tottering state, 
or support the cost of warlike struggles to re- 
place a dynasty. To him came the heads of 
despotic governments — the leaders of rebellious 
democracy — the Russian and the Circassian- — 
the Carlist and the Christine. To the proud 
champion of divine right, or the fearless pro- 
mulgator of equality, to all he was accessible ; 
solvency and his profit were requirements he 
could not dispense with ; but, for the rest, in 
what channel of future good and evil his wealth 
was to flow, whether to maintain a throne, or 
sap its foundation — to iiphold a faith, or to 
desecrate its altars — to liberate a people, or to 
bind their fetters more closely, were cares that 
sat lightly on his heart. 

He might, with his vast means, have support- 
ed a style like royalty itself. There was no 
splendor nor magnificence he need have denied 
himself ; nor, as the world goes, any society 
from which he should be debarred. Gold is the 
picklock to the doors of palaces as of prisons; 
but he preferred this small and miserable habi- 
tation, which, for above two centuries, had never 
borne any other name than the “ Casa Mor- 
lache.” 

Various reasons were given out for a choice 
so singular ; among others, it was said that the 
Grand Duke was accustomed to visit the Jew 
by means of a secret passage from the “ Pitti,” 
while some alleged that the secret frequenters 
of Morlache’s abode all came by water, and 
that, in the dark night, many a boat skimmed 
the Arno, and directed its course to the last arch 
of the Ponte Vecchio. With these rumors we 
have no concern, nor with Morlaehe himself, 
have we more than a passing business. 

When Kate Dalton had driven up to the door, 
she had all but determined to abandon her in- 
tention. The arguments which, in the morn- 
ing, had taken her by surprise, seemed now 1 
weak and futile, and she was shocked with her- 
self for even the momentary yielding to Jekyl’s 
counsels. Her only doubt was whether to drive 
on without further halt, or leave some short 


156 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


message, to the effect that she had called, but 
could not delay there. This seemed the better 
and more courteous proceeding 5 and while she 
was yet speaking to the dark-eyed, hooked-nose 
boy, who appeared at the door, Jekyl came up. 

“ Be quick, Miss Dalton ! Don’t lose an in- 
'stant,” said he. “ Morlache is going to the 
palace, and we shall miss him.” 

“ But I have changed my mind. I have re- 
solved not to accept this assistance. It is bet- 
ter — far better — that I should not.” 

“ It is too late to think of that now,” said he, 
interrupting, and speaking with some slight de- 
gree of irritation. 

“ How too late ? What do you mean ?” 

“ That I have already told Morlache the 
whole story, and obtained his promise for the 
loan.” 

“ Oh, sir ! why have you done this ?” cried 
she, in a voice of anguish. 

“ I had your free permission for it, Miss Dal- 
ton. When we parted this morning, the matter 
was fully agreed on between us ; but still, if 
you desire to retract, your secret is in safe-keep- 
ing — Morlache never betrays a confidence.” 

“ And he has heard my name !” cried she, in 
a broken, sobbing tone. 

“ Not for the first time, be assured. Even 
Crcesns looked up from his ingots to ask if it 
were ‘la belle Dalton;’ and w T hen I said ‘Yes,’ 

‘ That’s enough,’ replied he ; ‘ would that all 
my moneys had so safe an investment !’ But 
stay — there is Purvis yonder. He is pretending 
to examine an eye-glass in that shop opposite, 
but I see well that he is there only en vidette .” 

“ What shall I do ?” exclaimed the poor girl, 
now torn by impulses and emotions the most op- 
posite. 

“ One thing you must do at once,” said Je- 
kyl ; “ get out of the carriage, and visit two or 
three of the shops, as if in quest of some article 
of jewelry. His anxiety to learn the precise 
object of your search will soon draw him from 
his ‘ lair.’ ” 

The decision of this counsel, almost like a 
command, so far imposed upon Kate that she at 
once descended, and took Jekyl’s arm along the 
bridge. They had not gone many yards, when 
the short, little, shuffling step of Purvis w r as 
beard behind them. Lingering to gaze at some 
of the splendid objects exposed for sale, they at 
last reached a very splendid stall, where dia- 
monds, pearls, and rubies lay in heaps of gor- 
geous profusion. And now Purvis had stationed 
himself exactly behind them, with his head most 
artistically adjusted to hear every thing that 
passed between them. 

Jekyl seemed to feel his presence as if by an 
instinct, and without ever turning his eye from 
the glass-case, said, in a voice of some dispar- 
, agement, 

“ All modern settings ! — very lustrous — very 
brilliant; but not at all what we are looking 
for.” 

Kate made no reply ; for while she had scru- 
ples about abetting a mere scheme, she was not 


the less eager to be free of the presence of tho 
‘ Great Inquisitor.’ ” 

“ That, perhaps,” said Jekyl, pointing to a 
magnificent cross of brilliants, “ would not go 
ill with the necklace, although the stones are 
smaller. Say something — any thing,” added 
he. in a lower tone ; “ the spell is working.” 

“ That is very handsome,” said Kate, point- 
ing at a venture to an object before her. 

“ So it is,” said Jekyl, quickly. “ Let us see 
what value they place upon it. Oh, here is Mr, 
Purvis — how r fortunate ; perhaps in all Florence 
there is not one so conversant with all that con- 
cerns taste and elegance ; and, as an old resi- 
dent, happily exempt from all the arts and w T iles 
played off’ upon our countrymen.” 

“ How d’ye do — d’ye do ?” cried Purvis, 
shaking hands with both. “You heard of the 
bl — bl — blunder I made last night about the 
ar — archduke ?” 

“Not a word of it,” replied Jekyl. 

“ I told him he was a — a — a — fool,” cried Pur- 
vis, with a scream and a cackle that very constant- 
ly followed any confession of an impertinence. 

“ Meno male!” exclaimed Jekyl- “Even 
princes ought to hear truth sometimes ; but you 
can help us here. Mr. Purvis, do you see that 
chatelaine yonder, with the large emerald pend- 
ant? Could you ascertain the price of it for 
Miss Dalton? — they’ll not attempt to extortion- 
ate upon you , which they would, assured!}', if 
she entered the shop.” 

“ To be sure ; I’ll do it with pi — pleasure ? 
Who is it for ?” 

“ That’s a secret, Mr. Purvis ; but you shall 
hear it afterward.” 

“ I guess al — ready,” said Scroope, with a 
cunning leer. “ You’re going to be m — m — 
m — married, a’n’t you?” 

“ Mr. Purvis, Mr. Purvis, I must call you to 
order,” said Jekyl, who saw that very little 
more wbuld make the scene unendurable to 
Kate. • , 

“ I hope it’s not an It — It — Italian fellow, for 
they’re all as poor as Laza — Laza — Laza — ” 

“Yes, yes, of course ; we know that — your 
discretion is invaluable,” said Jekyl ; “ but pray 
step in, and ask this question for us.” 

“I’ll tell you who’ll do better,” said Purvis, 
who, once full of a theme, never paid any atten- 
tion to what was said by others — “ Midchi — 
Midchi — Midchi — k — k — off! he owns half 
of—” 

“ Never mind what he owns ; but remember 
that Miss Dalton is waiting all this time,” said 
Jekyl, who very rarely so far lost command of 
his temper ; and at last Purvis yielded, and en- 
tered the shop. 

“Come, now,” said Jekyl to his companion; 
“ it will take him full five minutes to say ‘ Cha- 
telaine,’ and before that we shall be safely 
housed.” And with these words he hurried her 
along, laughing, in spite of all her anxieties, at 
the absurdity of the adventure. “ He’ll see the 
carriage when he comes out,” added he, “and 
I so I’ll tell the coachman to drive slowly on to 


157 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


\rard the 1’itli.” And thus, without asking her j 
consent, he assumed the full guidance at once, ! 
and, ere she well knew how or why, she found 
herself within the dark and dusky precincts of 
Morlache’s shop. 

Jekyl never gave Kate much time for hesita- 
tion, but hurried her along through a narrow 
passage, from which a winding flight of stone 
steps led downward to a considerable distance, 
and at last opened upon a neat little chamber on 
the level of the Arno, the window opening on 
the stream, and only separated from it by a 
little terrace, covered with geraniums, in full 
flower. There was a strange, undulating mo- 
tion, that seemed communicated from the stream 
to the apartment, which Jekyl at once explained 
to his companion as a contrivance for elevating 
and depressing the chamber with the changes in 
the current of the river, otherwise the room must 
have been under water for a considerable por- 
tion of the year. While he descanted on the 
ingenuity of the mechanism, and pointed atten- 
tion to the portraits along the walls — the kings 
and kaisars with whom Morlache had held mo- 
neyed relations — the minutes slipped on, and Je- 
kyl’s powers as a talker were called upon to 
speak against time, the fidgety nervousness of 
his manner, and the frequent glances he be- 
stowed at the time piece, showing how impa- 
tiently he longed for the Jew’s arrival. To all 
Kate’s scruples he opposed some plausible pre- 
text, assuring her that, if she desired it, no 
mention should be made of the loan ; that the 
visit might be as one of mere curiosity, to see 
some of those wonderful gems which had once 
graced the crowns of royalty ; and that, in any 
case, the brief delay would disembarrass them 
on the score of Purvis, whose spirit of inquiry 
would have called him off in some other direc- 
tion. At last, when now upward of half an 
hour had elapsed, and no sound nor sight bore 
token of the Jew’s coming, Jekyl resolved to go 
in search of him, and, requesting Kate to wait 
patiently for a few minutes, he left the room. 

At first, when she found herself alone, every 
noise startled and terrified her ; the minutes, as 
she watched the clock, seemed drawn out to 
hours ; she listened with an aching anxiety for 
Jekyl’s return, while, with a sorrowing heart, 
she reproached herself for ever having come 
there. To this state of almost feverish excite- 
ment succeeded a low and melancholy depres- 
sion, in which the time passed without her con- 
sciousness; the half-dulled sounds of the city, 
the monotonous plash of the stream as it flowed 
past, the distant cries of the boatmen as they 
guided their swift barks down the strong cur- 
rent, aiding and increasing a feeling that was 
almost lethargic. Already the sun had sunk 
below the hills, and the tall palaces were throw- 
ing their giant shadows across the river — the 
presage ol approaching night and still she sat 
there "all alone. Jekyl had never returned, nor 
had any one descended the stairs since his de- 
parture. Twice had she shaken off the dreamy 
stupor that was over her, and tried t© find the 


door of the chamber, but, concealed in the wain- 
scoting, it defied her efforts ; and now, worn out 
with anxiety, and disappointed, she sat down 
beside the window, gazing listlessly at the 
water, and wondering when and how her cap- 
tivity was to end. 

The lamps were now being lighted on the 
quays, and long columns of light streaked the 
dark river. Across these a black object was 
seen to glide, and as it passed, Kate could per- 
ceive it was a boat that advanced slowly against 
the current, and headed up the stream. As she 
watched, it came nearer and nearer; and now 
she could hear distinctly the sounds of voices 
talking in French. What, however, was her 
surprise when, instead of making for the centre 
arches of the bridge, the boat was vigorously 
impelled across the river, and its course directed 
toward the very place where she sat. 

However painful her situation before, now it 
became downright agony. It was clear there 
were persons coming ; in another moment she 
would be discovered, unable to explain by what 
course of events she had come there, and thus 
exposed to every surmise and suspicion that 
chance or calumny might originate. In that 
brief, but terrible moment., what self-accusings, 
what reproaches of Jekyl, crossed her mind ; 
and yet all these were as nothing to the misery 
which coming events seemed full of. For a 
second or two she stood irresolute, and then, 
with something like an instinct of escape, she 
stepped out upon the little terrace that support- 
ed the flowers, and, trembling with fear, took 
her stand beneath the shadow of one of the great 
buttresses of the bridge. The frail and half- 
rotten timbers creaked and bent beneath her 
weight, and close under her feet rolled along the 
dark river, with a low and sullen sound like 
moaning. Meanwhile the boat came nearer, 
and slowly gliding along, was at last brought 
up at the window. Two figures passed into 
the chamber, and the boatmen, as if performing 
a long-accustomed task, rowed out a few length* 
into the stream to wait. 

From the window, which still remained open, 
a stream of light now issued, and Kate’s quick 
hearing could detect the rustling sound of pa- 
pers on the table. 

“There they are,” said a voice, the first ac- 
cents of which she knew to belong to the Abbe 
d’Esmonde. “ There they are, Signor Mor- 
lache. We have no concealments nor reserve 
with you. Examine them for yourself. You 
will find reports from nearly every part of the 
kingdom, some more, some less, favorable in 
their bearings, but all agreeing in the main fact, 
that the cause is a great one, and the success 
all but certain.” 

“ I have told you before,” said the Jew, 
speaking in a thick, guttural utterance, “ that 
my sympathies never lead me into expense. 
Every solvent cause is good, every bankrupt 
one the reverse, in my estimation.” 

“ Even upon that ground I am ready to meet 
you. The committee — ” 


158 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ Ay, who are the committee ?” interrupted 
the Jew, hastily. 

The committee contains some of the first 
Catholic names of Ireland — men of landed for- 
tune and great territorial influence, together 
with several of the higher clergy. 

“ The bishops ?” 

“ The bishops, almost to a man, are with us 
in heart; but their peculiar position requires 
the most careful and delicate conduct. No turn 
of fortune must implicate them' or our cause is 
lost forever.” 

“ If your cause be all you say it is — if the 
nationality be so strong, and the energies so 
powerful, as you describe — why not try 4he 
issue, as the Italians and the Hungarians are 
about to do?” said Morlache. “I can under- 
stand a loan for a defined and real object — the 
purchase of military stores and equipment — to 
provide arms and ammunition : and I can under- 
stand how the lender, too, could calculate his 
risk of profit or loss on the issue of the strug- 
gle ; but here, you want half a million sterling, 
and for what ?” 

“ To win a kingdom f” cried D’Esmonde, en- 
thusiastically. “ To bring back to the fold of 
the Church the long lost sheep, and make Ire- 
land, as she once was, the centre of holy zeal 
and piety !” 

“I am not a pope, nor a cardinal — not even 
a monsignore,” said Morlache, with a bitter 
laugh. “ You must try other arguments with 
me ; and once more I say, why not join that 
party who already are willing to risk their lives 
in the venture ?” 

“ Have I not told you what and who they are 
who form this party?” said D’Esmonde, pas- 
sionately. “ Read those papers before you. 
Study the secret reports sent from nearly every 
parish of the kingdom. In some you will find 
the sworn depositions of men on their deathbeds 
• — the last words their lips have uttered on earth 
— all concurring to show that Ireland has no 
hope save in the Church. The men who now 
stir up the land to revolt are not devoid of cour- 
age or capacity. They are bold, and they are 
able — but they are infidel ! They would call 
upon their countrymen in the name of past as- 
sociations — the wrongs of by-gone centuries ; 
they would move the heart by appeals, touching 
enough, Heaven knows, to the galling sores of 
our serfdom, but they will not light one fire 
upon the altar — they will not carry the only 
banner that should float in the van of an Irish 
army. Their bold denouncings may warn some 
— their poetry will, perhaps, move others ; but 
their prose and verse, like themselves, will be 
forgotten in a few years, and, save a few grassy 
mounds in a village church-yard, or a prisoner’s 
’plaint sent over the sea from a land of banish- 
ment, nothing will remain of Ireland’s patriots.” 

4 ‘ England is too powerful for such assailants,” 
said the Jew. 

“Very true; but remember, that the stout 
three-decker, that never struck to an enemy, 
has crumbled to ruin beneath the dry rot,” said 


I D’Esmonde. with a savage energy of manner. 
“ Such is the case now. All is rot and corrup- 
tion within her — pauperism at home, rebellion 
abroad. The nobles, more intolerant as the 
commonalty grows more ambitious ; resources 
diminishing as taxation increases ; disaffection 
every where — in the towns where they read, in 
the rural districts where they brood over their 
poverty ; and lastly, but greatest of all, schism 
in the Church — a mutiny in that disorderly 
mass that never was yet disciplined to obedi- 
ence. Are these the evidences of strength, or 
are they sure signs of coming ruin ? Mark 
me,” said he, hurriedly; “I do not mean from 
all this that such puny revolt as we are now to 
see can shake powers like that of England. 
These men will have the same fate as Tone and 
Emmett, without the sympathy that followed 
them ! They will fail, and fail egregiously ; 
but it is exactly upon this failure that our hopes 
of success are based. Not a priest will join 
them. On the contrary, their scheme will be 
denounced from our altars — our flocks warned 
to stand aloof from their evil influence. Our 
bishops will be in close communication with the 
heads of the government ; all the little coquet- 
ries of confidence and frankness will be played 
off, and our loyalty — that’s the phrase — our loy- 
alty stand high in public esteem. The very 
jeers and insults of our enemies will give fresh 
lustre to our bright example, and our calm and 
dignified demeanor form the contrast to that 
rampant intolerance that assails us.” 

“But for all this classic dignity,” said Mor- 
lache, sneeringly, “you need no money — such 
nobility of soul is, after all, the cheapest of lux- 
uries.” 

“You are mistaken — mistaken egregiously,” 
broke in D’Esmonde. “ It is precisely at that 
moment that we shall require a strong friend 
behind us. The ‘ Press’ is all-powerful in En- 
gland. If it does not actually guide, it is the 
embodiment of public opinion, without which 
men would never clothe their sentiments in fit- 
ting phrase, or invest them with those short and 
pithy apophthegms that form the watchwords 
of party. Happily, if it be great, it is venal ; and 
although the price be a princely ransom, the 
bargain is worth the money. Fifty, or a hun- 
dred thousand pounds, at that nick, would gain 
our cause. We shall need many advocates ; 
some, in assumed self-gratulation over their own 
prescience, in supporting our claims in time past, 
and reiterating the worn assertion of our attach- 
ment to the throne and the constitution ; others, 
to contrast our bearing with the obtrusive loyalty 
of Orangeism ; and others, again, going further 
than either, to proclaim that but for us, Ireland 
would have been lost to England ; and, had not 
our allegiance stood in the breach, the cause of 
rebellion would have triumphed.” 

“ And is this character for loyalty worth so 
much money ?” said the Jew, slowly. 

“ Not as a mere empty name — not as a vain 
boast,” replied D’Esmonde, quickly ; “but if the 
tree be stunted, its fruits are above price. Our 


159 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


martyrdom will not go unrewarded. The mo- 
ment of peril over, the season of concessions will 
begin. How I once hated the word ! — how I 
used to despise those who were satisfied with 
these crumbs from the table of the rich man, 
not knowing that the time would come when we 
should sit at the board ourselves. Concession ! 

— the vocabularv has no one word I’d change 
v ) 

for it — it is conquest, dominion, sovereignty, all 
together. By concession, we may be all we 
strive for, but never could wrest by force. Now, 
my good Signor Morlache. these slow and sen- 
tentious English are a most impulsive people, 
and are often betrayed into the strangest ex- 
cesses of forgiveness and forgetfulness ; inso- 
much, that I feel assured that nothing will be 
refused us, if we but play our game prudently.” 

“ And what is the game ?” said the Jew, with 
impatience ; “ for it seems to me that you are 
not about to strike for freedom, like the Hun- 
garians or the Lombards. What, then, is the 
prize you strive for ?” 

“ The Catholicism of Ireland, and then of 
England — the subjugation of the haughtiest re- 
bel to the faith — the only one whose disaffection 
menaces our holy church ; for the Lutheranism 
of the German is scarce worth the name of ene- 
my. England once Catholic, the world is our 
own !” 

The enthusiasm of his manner, and the ex- 
cited tones of his round, full voice, seemed to 
check the Jew, whose cold, sarcastic features 
were turned toward the priest with an expres- 
sion of wonderment. 

“ Let us come back from all this speculation 
to matter of plain fact,” said Morlache, after a 
long pause. u What securities are offered for 
the repayment of this sum ? — for, although the 
theme be full of interest to you, to me it has but 
the character of a commercial enterprise.” 

“ But it ought not,” said D’Esmonde, pas- 
sionately. “ The downfall of the tyranny of 
England is your cause as much as ours. What 
Genoa and Venice were in times past, they may 
become again. The supremacy of the seas once 
wrested from that haughty power, the long- 
slumbering energies of Southern Europe will 
awaken ; the great trading communities of the 
Levant will resume their ancient place ; and the 
rich argosies of the East once more will float 
over the waters of the tideless sea.” 

“ Not in our time, abbe — not in our time,” 
said the Jew, smiling. 

“But are we only to build for ourselves ?” 
said D'Esmonde. “ Was it thus your own great 
forefathers raised the glorious temple ?” 

The allusion called up but a cold sneer on 
the Israelite’s dark countenance, and D’Esmonde 
knew better than to repeat a blow that showed 
itself to be powerless. 

A tap at the door here broke in upon the col- 
loquy, and Jekyl’s voice was heard on the out- 
side. 

“ Sav you are engaged — that you can not ad- 
mit him,” whispered D’Esmonde: “I do not 
wish that he should see me here.” 


“ A thousand pardons, Morlache,” said Jekyl, 
from without; “but when I followed you to the 
£ Pitti,’ I left a young lady here — has she gone 
away, or is she still here ?” 

“I never saw her,” said Morlache: “she 
must have left before I returned.” 

“ Thanks — good-by,” said Jekyl ; and his 
quick foot was heard ascending the stairs again. 

“ The night air grows chilly,” said the abbe, 
as he arose and shut the window ; and the boat- 
men, mistaking the sound for a summons to ap- 
proach, pulled up to the spot. 

With a sudden spring, Kate bounded into the 
boat, while yet some distance off, and hurriedly 
said, “To the stairs, beside the Santa Trinita.” 

The clink of money, as she took out her purse, 
made the brief command intelligible, and they 
shot down the stream with speed. 

“ Do not speak of me,” said she, covering her 
face with her kerchief as she stepped from the 
boat ; and a gold Napoleon enforced the caution. 

It was now night — the lamps were all lighted, 
and the streets crowded by that bustling throng 
of population whose hours of business or pleas- 
ure commence when day has closed. A thin, 
drizzling rain was falling, and the footway was 
wet and muddy. Dressed in the height of fash- 
ion — all her attire suited to a carriage — Kate 
set out to walk homeward, with a heart sinking 
from terror. Many a time in her condition of 
poverty, with patched and threadbare cloak, had 
she traveled the dark road from Lichtenthal to 
Baden after nightfall, fearless and undismayed, 
no dread of danger, nor of insult, occurring to her 
happy spirit, the “ Gute Nacht” of some home- 
ward-bound peasant the only sound that saluted 
her ; but now, she was no longer in the seclud- 
ed valley of the great Fatherland; her way led 
through the crowded thoroughfares of a great 
city, with all its crash, and noise, and movement. 

If in her wild confusion she had no thought 
for each incident of the morning, her mind was 
full of “ self-accusings.” How explain to Lady 
Hester her long absence, and her return alone, 
and on foot ? Her very maid, Nina, might ar- 
raign her conduct, and regard her with distrust 
and suspicion. How should she appear in Jekyl’s 
eyes, who already knew her secret ? and, last- 
ly. what answer return to her poor father’s let- 
ter — that letter which was the cause of all her 
misfortunes ? 

“ I will tell him every thing,” said she to 
herself, as she went along. “ I will detail the 
whole events of this morning, and he shall see 
that my failure has not come of lukewarmness. 
I will also strive to show him the nature of my 
position, and let him know the full extent of the 
sacrifice he would exact from me. If he per- 
sist, what then ? Is it better to go back and 
share the poverty I oan not alleviate ? But 
what alternative have I? — Jekyl’s flatteries are 
but fictions : would I wish them to be other- 
wise ? Alas ! I can not tell ; I do not even 
know my own heart now ! Oh, for one true- 
hearted friend to guide and counsel me!” She 
thought of George Onslow — rash, impetuous, and 


< ' 


\ 


160 THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ardent; she thought of the priest, D’Esmonde — 
but the last scene in which he figured made 
her shrink with terror from the man of dark in- 
trigues and secret w T iles ; she even thought of 
poor Hanserl, whom, in all the simplicity of his 
nature, she wished to have that moment beside 
her. “But he would say, 1 Go back — return to 
the humble home you quitted — put away all the 
glittering gauds that are clinging to and clasp- 
ing your very heart. Take,* once more, your 
lowly place at hearth and board, and forget 
the bright dream of pleasure you have passed 
through.’ But how forget it? Has it not be- 
come my hope, my very existence ? How easy 
for those who have not tasted the intoxicating 
cup, to say, ‘ Be cool of heart and head !’ Nor 
am I what I was. How, then, go back to be 
that which I have ceased to be ? Would that I 
had never left it! — w T ould that I could live again 
in the dreamland of the poets that we loved so 
well, and wander with dearest Nelly through 
those Ibrest-glades, peopled with the creations 
of Uhland, Tieck, and Chammisso ! What a 
glorious world is theirs, and how unlike the real 
one !” 

Thus lost in thoughts conflicting and jarring 




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with each other — mingling the long past with 
the distant future — hoping and fearing — now, 
seeking self-persuasion, here ; now, controver- 
ting her own opinions, there — she walked hur- 
riedly on, unconscious of the time, the place, 
and even the rude glances bestowed upon her 
by many who gazed at her with an insolent 
admiration. What an armor is innocence ! — 
how proof against the venomed dart of malice ! 
Kate never knew the ordeal through which she 
was passing. She neither saw the looks nor 
heard the comments of those that passed. If her 
mind ever turned from the throng of thoughts 
that oppressed it, it was w’hen some momentary 
difficulty of the way recalled her to herself, for, 
as she escaped from the smaller streets, the 
crowd and crash increased, and she found her- 
self borne along as in a strong current. 

“Does this lead to the Piazza Annunziata?” 
asked she of a woman at a fruit-stall. 

“ Tell her, Giacomo,” said the woman to a 
youth, who, with a water-melon in his hand, lay 
at full length on the pavement. 

“ Per Baccho / but she’s handsome!” said he, 
holding up the paper-lantern to gazo at her. 

And Kate hurried on in terror. 

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CHAPTER XXXVI. 

t " * ’ 

“ A STREET RENCONTRE.” 


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Lady Hester Onslow had passed a day of 
martyrdom. There was scarcely a single con- 
trariety in the long catalogue of annoyances 
which had not fallen to her share. Her serv- 
ants, habitually disciplined to perfection, had 
admitted every boor of her acquaintance, while, 
to the few she really wished to see, admittance 
had been denied. The rumor of an approach- 
ing departure had got wind through the serv- 
ants, and the hall and the court-yard were 
crowded with creditors, duns, and begging im- 
postors of every age, and class, and country. 
It seemed as if every one with a petition, or a 
bill, an unsatisfied complaint, or an unsettled 
balance, had given themselves a general ren- 
dezvous that morning at the Mazzarini Palace. 

It is well known how the most obsequious 
tradespeople grow peremptory when passports 
are signed, and post-horses are harnessed. The 
bland courteousness with which they receive 
“your ladyship’s orders” undergoes a terrible 
change. Departure is the next thing to death. 
Another country sounds like another world. 
The deferential bashfulness that could not hint 
at the mention of money, now talks boldly of his 
debt. The solvent creditor, who said always 
“ at your own convenience,” has suddenly a 
most pressing call “to make up a large sum by 
Saturday.” 

All the little cajoleries and coquetries, all the 
little seductions and temptations of trade, are 
given up. The invitations to buy are converted 
into suggestions for “ cash payment.” It is 
very provoking, and very disenchanting ! From 
a liberal and generous patron, you suddenly dis- 
cover yourself transformed into a dubious debtor. 
All that halo that has surrounded your taste is 
changed for a chill atmosphere of suspicion and 
distrust. The tradesfolk, whose respectful voices 
never rose above a whisper in the hall, now 
grew clamorous in the ante-chamber; and more 
than once did they actually obtrude themselves 
in person within those charmed precincts inhab- 
ited by Lady Hester. 

What had become of Miss Dalton? — where 
could she be all this while ? — Had not Mr. 
Jekyl called ? — what was he about, that he had 
not “arranged” with all these “tiresome creat- 
ures ?” Was there no one who knew what to 
do? Was not Captain Onslow, even, to be 
found ? It was quite impossible that these 
people could be telling the truth ; the greater 


number, if not all of them, must have been paid 
already, for she had spent a world of money 
latterly — “ somehow.” Celestine was charged 
with a message to this effect, which had a result 
the very opposite to what it was intended ; and 
now the noisy tongues and angry accents grew 
bolder and louder. Still none came to hex 4 
rescue ; and she was left alone to listen to the 
rebellious threatenings that murmured in the 
court-yard, or to read the ill-spelled imperti- 
nences of such as preferred to epistolize their 
complaints. 

The visitors who found their way to the 
drawing-room had to pass through this motley 
and clamorous host; and, at each opening of 
the door, the sounds swelled loudly out. 

More than once she bethought her of Sir 
Stafford ; but shame opposed the resolution. 
His liberality, indeed, was boundless ; and there- 
in lay the whole difficulty. Were the matter one 
for discussion or angry remonstrance, she could 
have adventured it without a dread. She could 
easily have brought herself to confront a strug- 
gle, but was quite unequal to an act of submis- 
sion. Among the numerous visitors who now 
thronged the salons, Lord Norwood, who had 
just returned from a shooting excursion in the 
Maremma, was the only one with whom she 
had any thing like intimacy. 

“ I am but a poor counselor in such a case,” 
said he, laughing. “I was never dunned in 
my life — personally, I mean — for I always take 
care not to be found ; and as to written applica- 
tions, I know a creditor’s seal and superscription 
as well as though I had seen him affix them. 
The very post-mark is peculiar.” 

“ This levity is very unfeeling at such a mo- 
ment,” said Lady Hester, angrily ; “ and when 
you see me so utterly deserted, too !” 

“But where’s Jekyl? He ought to know 
how to manage this !” 

“ He has never been here since morning. 
His conduct is inexcusable 1” 

“And George?” ^ 

“ Out the whole day !” 

“And the ‘Dalton?’ for she has rather a 
good head, if I don’t mistake her.” 

“ She took the carriage into town, and has 
not returned.” 

“By Jove! I’d write a line to Sir Stafford; 
I’d tell him that I was going for change of air, 
and all that sort of thing, to Como for a week 


162 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


or two, and that these people were so pestering, 
and pressing, and all that; that, in fact, you 
were worried to death about it; and finding 
that your means were so very limited — ” 

“ But he has been most liberal. His gener- 
osity has been without bounds.” 

“ So much the better ; he’ll come down all 
the readier now.” . ' , 

“ I feel shame at such a course,” said she, in 
a weak, faint voice. t / 

“As I don’t precisely know what that sensa- 
tion is, I can’t advise against it; but it must 
needs be a very powerful emotion, if it prevent 
you accepting money.” 

“Can you think of nothing else, Norwood?” 

“To be sure I can — there are twenty ways 
to do the thing^ Close the shutters, and send 
for BucceHini : be ill — dangerously ill — and 
leave this to-morrow, at daybreak ; or give a 
ball, like Dashwood, and start when the com- 
pany are at supper. You lose the spoons and 
forks, to be sure ; but that can’t be helped. 
You might try and bully them, too — though 
perhaps it’s late for that : and lastly — and, I 
believe, best of all — raise a few hundreds, and 
pay them each something.” 

“ But how or where raise this money?” 

“ Leave that to me, if it must be done. The 
great benefactor of mankind was the fellow that 
invented bills. The glorious philanthropist that 
first devised the bright expedient of living by 
paper, when bullion failed, was a grand and 
original genius. How many a poor fellow 
might have been rescued from the Serpentine, 
by a few words scrawled over a five-shilling 
stamp ! What a turn to a man’s whole earthly 
career has been often given, as his pen glided 
over the imaginative phrase, ‘I promise to 
* pay !’ ” 

Lady Hester paid no attention to the vis- 
count’s moralizings. Shame — indignant shame, 
monopolized all her feelings. 

“ Well,” said she, at last, “I believe it must 
be so. I can not endure this any longer. Jekyl 
has behaved shamefully ; and George I’ll never 
forgive. They ought to have taken care of all 
this. And now, Norwood, to procure the money 
■what is to be done?” 

“ Here’s the patent treasury for pocket use — 
the ‘ Young Man’s best Companion,’ ” said he, 
taking out of a black morocco-case three or four 
blank bill-stamps, together with a mass of ac- 
ceptances of various kinds, the proceeds of va- 
rious play debts, the majority of which he well 
knew to be valueless. “ What amount will be 
Sufficient — how much shall we draw for?” 
said he, seating himself, pen in hand, at the 
table. 

“I can not even guess,” said she, trembling 
with embarrassment and confusion. “ There 
are all these people’s accounts and letters. I 
suppose they are all horrid cheats. I’m sure I 
never got jhalf the things, and that the rest are 
already paid for. But no matter now; let us 
have done with them at any cost.” 

“ 1 Morlandi, coachmaker’ — pretty well for 


! Signor Morlandi!” said Norwood — “eleven 
hundred scudi for repairs to carriages — for de- 
stroying your patent axles, and replacing En- 
j glish varnish by the lacquer of a tea-tray — 
something less than two hundred and fifty 
pounds !” 

“He is an obliging creature,” said Lady 
j Hester, “and always punctual.” 

“In that case we’ll deal generously with 
| him. He shall have half his money, if he give 
! a receipt in full.” 

“ ‘ Legendre, coiffure ; eight thousand francs.’ 
Pas mal, Monsieur Legendre ! — kid gloves and 
perfumes, Madonna bands, and Macassar oil, 
are costly things to deal in.” 

“That is really iniquitous,” said Lady Hes- 
ter. “I see every bouquet is put down at a 
hundred francs!” 

“ A conservatory, at that rate, is better prop- 
erty than a coal-mine. Shall we say one thou- 
sand francs for this honest coiffure?” 

“Impossible. He would scorn such an 
offer.” 

“Pardon me. I know these people some- 
what better and longer than you do ; and so far 
even from suffering in his estimation — if that 
were a matter of any consequence — you will 
rise in his good opinion. An Italian always 
despises a dupe, but entertains a sincere respect 
for all who detect knavery. I’ll set him down 
for one thousand, to be increased to fifteen hun- 
dred if he’ll tell me how to cut down his neigh- 
bor, Guercini.” 

“What of Guercini? How much is his 
claim?” 

“A trifle; under five thousand crowns.” 

“Nearly one thousand pounds!” exclaimed 
she. 

“ Say, rather, eleven hundred and upward,” 
said Norwood. 

“It is incredible how little I’ve had from 
him ; a few trifling rings and brooches ; some 
insignificant alterations and new settings ; one 
or two little presents to Kate ; and, I really be- 
lieve, nothing more.” 

“ We are getting deeper and deeper,” said 
Norwood, turning over the bills. Contardo, the 
wine-merchant, and Frisini, table-decker, are 
both large claimants. If pine-apples were the 
daily food of the servants’ hall, they could 
scarcely cut a more formidable figure in the 
reckoning — indeed, if the whole establishment 
did nothing but munch them during all their 
leisure hours, the score need not be greater. 
Do you know, Hester, that the rogueries of the 
Continent are a far heavier infliction than the 
income-tax ? and that the boasted economy of a 
foreign residence is sensibly diminished by the 
unfortunate fact that one honest tradesman is 
not to be found from Naples to the North Pole. 
They are Spartans in deceit, and only disgraced 
whenever the rascality is detected. Now, it is 
quite absurd to read such an item as this : ‘Bon- 
bons and dried fruits, three hundred and seventy 
crowns !’ Why, if your guests were stuffed with 
marrons glacccs, this would be an exaggeration.” 


163 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


tl You are very tiresome, Norwood,” said she, 
peevishly. “ I don’t wan’t to be told that these 
people are all knaves ; their character for hon- 
esty is no affair of mine ; If it were, Buccellini 
could easily mesmerize any of them and learn 
all his secrets. I only wish to get rid of them 
' s very distressing to hear their dreadful 
voices, and see their more dreadful selves in the 
court beneath.” 

c ’ The task is somewhat more difficult than I 
bargained for,” said Norwood, thoughtfully. 
‘‘I fancied a few ‘hundreds’ would suffice, but 
we must read ‘ thousands,’ instead. In any 
case, I’ll hold a conference with them, and see 
what can be done.” 

“ Then — do so, then, and lose no time, for I 
see Midchikoff’s chasseur below, and I’m sure 
the prince is coming.” 

Norwood gave her a look which made her 
suddenly become scarlet, and then left the room 
without speaking. 

If he had not been himself a debtor with the 
greater number of those who waited below, few 
could have acquitted themselves more adroitly 
in such a mission. He was an adept in that 
clever game by which duns are foiled and 
tradesmen mollified; he knew every little men- 
ace and every flattery to apply to them, when 
to soothe and when to snub them. All these 
arts he was both ready and willing to exercise, 
were it not for the unpleasant difficulty that his 
own embarrassments rendered him a Somewhat 
dubious embassador. In fact, as he himself 
phrased it, “ It was playing advocate with one 
leg in the dock.” 

He lingered a little, therefore, as he went; 
he stopped on the landing of the stairs to peep 
out on the tumultuous assemblage beneath, like 
a general surveying the enemy’s line before the 
engagement ; nor was he over pleased to re- 
mark that little Purvis was bustling about among 
the crowd, note-nook and pencil in hand, pal- 
pably taking evidence and storing up facts for 
future mention. As he was still looking, the 
great gate was thrown open with a crash, and 
a caieche, dirty and travel-stained, was whirled 
into the court by three steaming and panting 
posters. After a brief delay, a short, thickset 
figure, enveloped in traveling gear, descended, 
and putting, as it seemed, a few questions as to 
the meaning of the assembled throng, entered 
the house. 

Curious to learn who, what, and whence the 
new arrival came, Norwood hurried down stairs, 
but all that he could learn from the postillion 
was, that the stranger had posted from Genoa, 
using the greatest speed all the way, and never 
halting, save a few minutes for refreshment. 
The traveler was not accompanied by a servant, 
and his luggage bore neither name nor crest to 
give any clew as to his identity. That he was 
English, and that he had gone direct to Sir 
Stafford’s apartments, was the whole sum of 
the viscount’s knowledge ; but even this seemed 
so worthy of remark, that he hastened back 
with the tidings to Lady Hester, instead of pro^ 
ceeding on his errand. 


She treated the announcement with less in- 
terest. It might be Proctor — Sir Stafford’s 
man. Was he tall, and black-whiskered? No, 
he was short ; and, so far as Norwood saw, he 
thought him fair-haired. “ She knew of nobody 
to bear that description. It might be an English 
physician from Genoa — there was one there, or 
in Nice, she forgot exactly which, who was 
celebrated for treating gout, or sore eyes — she 
could not remember precisely, but it was cer- 
tainly one or the other. On recollection, how- 
ever, it was probably gout, because he had at- 
tended Lord Hugmore, who was blind.” 

‘'In that case,” said Norwood, “Onslow 
would seem to be worse.” 

“ Yes, poor man — much worse. George sat 
up with him the night before last, and said he 
suffered terribly. His mind used to wander at 
intervals too, and he spoke as if he was very 
unhappy.” 

“Unhappy — a man with upward of thirty 
thousand a year, unhappy !” said Norwood, 
clasping his hands over his head as he spoke. 

“You forget, my lord, that there are other 
considerations than moneyed ones which weigh 
at least with some persons ; and if Onslow’s 
fortune be a princely one, he may still feel 
compunctuous regrets for his detestable conduct 
to me /” 

“ Oh. I forgot that /” said Norwood, with a 
most laudable air of seriousness. 

“ It was very kind of you, my lord — very 
considerate and very kind indeed, to forget it. 
Yet I should have fancied it was the very senti- 
ment uppermost in the mind of any one : enter- 
ing this chamber — witnessing the solitary seclu- 
sion of my daily life — beholding the resources 
by which the weary hours are beguiled — not to 
speak of the ravages which sorrow has left 
upon these features.” 

“ On that score, at least, I can contradict 
you, Hester,” said he, with a smile of flattering 
meaning. “It is now above eight years since 
first — ” 

“ How can you be so tiresome ?” said she, 
pettishly. 

“ Prince Midchikoff, my lady, presents his 
compliments,” said a servant, “and wishes to 
know if your ladyship will receive him at dinner 
to-day, and at what hour?” 

“How provoking! Yes — say, ‘Yes, at 
eight o’clock,’ ” said she, walking up and down 
the room with impatience. “ You’ll stay and 
meet him, Norwood; I know you’re not great 
friends ; but no matter, George is so uncertain 
he left us t’other day to entertain the Prince 
alone — Kate and myself — only fancy ; and as 
he takes half-hour fits of silence, and Kate oc- 
casionally won’t speak for a whole evening to- 
gether, my part was a pleasant one.” 

“How Florence wrongs you both,” said Nor- 
wood ; “ they say that no one is more agreeable 
to your ladyship than the Midchikoff,” said he, 
slowly and pointedly. 

“ As Miss Dalton’s admirer — I hope rumor 
adds that,” said she, hastily. 


164 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“What? are you really serious? Has the 
Dalton pretensions?” 

“ Perhaps not ; but the prince has,” inter- 
rupted Lady Hester ; “ but you are forgetting 
these people all the while. Do pray do some- 
thing — any thing with them ; and don’t forget 
us at eight o’clock.” And with this Lady Hes- 
ter hurried from the room, as if admonished by 
her watch of the lateness of the hour • but really 
anxious to escape further interrogatory from the 
viscount. 

When Norwood reached the court, he was 
surprised to find it empty — not one of the eager 
creditors remained ; but all was still and silent.. 

“What has become of these good people?” 
asked he of the porter. 

“ The stranger who arrived in the caleche 
awhile ago spoke a few words to them, and 
they w’ent.” 

This was all that he knew, and being a por- 
ter — one of that privileged caste, whose prerog- 
ative it is never to reveal what takes place be- 
fore their eyes — his present communication was 
remarkable. 

y % , 

“ Would that the good genius had remem- 
bered me in his moment of generous abandon- 
ment !” muttered Norwood, as he took his road 
homeward to dress for dinner. 

Little scrupulous about the means of getting 
out of a difficulty, provided it were only suc- 
cessful, Norwood scarcely bestowed another 
thought upon the whole matter, and lounged 
along the streets as forgetful of the late scene 
as though it had passed twenty years before. 

As the viscount strolled along toward his 
lodgings, Kate Dalton, with trembling limbs 
and palpitating heart, threaded her way through 
the thronged streets, now wet and slippery from 
a thin rain that was falling. So long as her 
road lay through the less frequented thorough- 
fares, her appearance excited little or no atten- 
tion in the passers-by ; but when she entered 
the Piazza Santa Trinita, all a-blaze with gas- 
lamps, and the reflected lights from brilliant 
shops, many stopped, turned, and gazed at the 
strange sight of a young and beautiful girl, at- 
tired in the very height of fashion, being alone 
and afoot at such an hour. Unaccountable, even 
to mystery, as it seemed, there was something 
in her gait and carriage that at once repelled 
the possibility of a disparaging impression, and 
many touched or removed their hats respectful- 
ly as they made way for her to pass. To avoid 
the carriages, which whirled past in every di- 
rection and at tremendous speed, she passed 
close along by the houses, and, in doing so, 
came within that brilliant glare of light that 
poured from the glass doors of the great Cafe 
of the Piazza. It was exactly the hour when 
the idle loungers of Florence society — that list- 
less class who form the staple of our club life in 
England — were swarming to talk of the plans 
of the evening, what resources of pleasure were 
available, and wfiat receptions were open. The 
drizzling rain, and the cold, raw feeling of the 
air, prevented their being seated, as their cus- 


tom was, before the doors, where in every atti- 
tude of graceful languor they habitually smoked 
their cigars and discussed the passers-by, in all 
the plenitude of recreative indolence. The 
group consisted of men of every age and coun- 
try. 

There were princes, and blacklegs, and ad- 
venturers ; some with real rank and fortune ; 
others as destitute of character as of means. 
Many owned names great and renowned in his- 
tory ; others bore designations only chronicled 
in the records of criminal jurisprudence. All 
were well dressed, and, so far as cursory notice 
could detect, possessed the ease and bearing of 
men familiar with the habits of good society. 
Although mixing in very distinct circles, here, 
at least, they met every day on terms of familiar 
equality, discussing the politics of the hour and 
the events of the world with seeming frankness 
and candor. 

From a small chamber at the back of the 
Cafe a little tide of loungers seemed to ebb and 
flow, while the sharp rattling sound of a dice- 
box indicated the nature of the occupation that 
went forward there. The small apartment was 
thronged with spectators of the game, and even 
around the door several w r ere standing, content 
to hear the tidings of a contest they could not 
witness. 

“To sit upon the Ponte Carraja, and chuck 
rouleaux of gold into the Arno, would be to the 
full as amusing, and not a more costly pastime,” 
said a sharp, ringing voice, which, once heard, 
there was no difficulty in recognizing as Hag- 
gerstone’s. 

“But Onslow plays well,” said another. 

“ When he’s in luck, sir,” said the colonel. 
“ Let him always have the winning horse to 
ride, and I don’t say he’ll lose the saddle j but 
Maraffi would win on a donkey.” 

“Is he a Russian?” askejl one. 

“ No, sir, he’s worse ; he’s a Greek. I know 
every thing about him. His mother was a Fin- 
lander, and the father a Cephalonian. 1 don’t 
think Satan himself would ask a better parent- 
age.” 

“What luck! By Jove! I never saw such 
luck !” said a voice from within the door. “ Ons- 
low has no chance with him.” 

“ Nor will you, sir, if you persist in express- 
ing your opinion in English,” said Haggerstone. 
“ Maraffi speaks every language, plays every 
game, and knows the use of every weapon, 
from a jereed to Joe Manton.” 

“ I’ll not test his abilities at any of them,” 
said the other, laughing. 

Per Baccho / there goes something new,” 
said a young Italian, from the wdndow that 
looked into the street. “Who’s she?” 

“ Diantre ! said the old Due de Parivaux. 
“ That is something very exquisite indeed. She 
was splashed by that carriage that passed, and 
I just saw her foot.” 

“ She’s the Prima Donna from Milan.” 

“ She’s the Cipriani. I know her figure pe*» 
fectly.” 


165 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


11 She’s very like the Princess de Raoule.” 

“ Taller, and younger.” 

“ And fifty times handsomer. What eyes ! 
By Jove ! I wish that drosky would never move 
on! She is regularly imprisoned there.” 

"'You are very ungallant, gentlemen, I must 
saj 7 ,” said the young Count de Guilmard, the 
French Secretary of Legation, who, having fin- 
ished his coffee and liquor, coolly arranged his 
curls beneath his hat before the glass — -“very 
ungallant indeed, not to offer an arm to an 
unprotected princess. We Frenchmen under- 
stand our ‘devoirs’ differently.” And, so say- 
ing, he passed out into the street, while the rest 
pressed up closer to the window to observe his 
proceedings. 

“ Cleverly done, Guilmard !” cried one. “ See 
how he affects to have protected her from the 
pole of that carriage.” 

“She’ll not notice him” — “ She will She 
has” — “ She hasn’t” — “ She is moving his way” 
— “Not at all” — “She’s speaking” — “There, 
I told you he’d succeed” — “But he hasn’t, 
though.” Amid all these phrases, which rat- 
tled on more rapidly than we can write them, 
Onslow joined the party, one heavy venture on 
a single card having involved him in a tremen- 
dous loss. 

“ Is that a countrywoman of yours, Onslow?” 
asked a young Russian noble. “If so, the en- 
tente cordiale with France seems scarcely so 
secure as statesmen tell us.” 

Onslow gave one glance through the window, 
and dashed into the street with a bound like the 
spring of a wild animal. He threw himself be- 
tween Guilmard and Kate. The Frenchman 
lifted his cane, and the same instant he fell 
backward upon the pavement, rather hurled 
than struck down by the strong arm of the 
young Guardsman. Before the lookers-on could 
hasten out, George had hailed a carriage, and, 
assisting Kate in, took his seat beside her, and 
drove off. 

So sudden was the whole incident, and so en- 
grossing the terror of poor Kate’s mind, that 
she saw nothing of what passed, and was mere- 
ly conscious that by George’s opportune coming 
she was rescued from the insolent attentions ol 
the stranger. 

“ Did he speak to you? Did he dare to ad- 
dress you ?” asked Onslow, in a voice which 
boiling passion rendered almost unintelligible. 

“If he did, I know not,” said she, as she 
covered her face with shame, and struggled 
against the emotion that almost choked her. 

“ He took your arm — he certainly laid hold 
of your hand !” 

“ It was all so rapid, that I can tell nothing,” 
said she, sobbing ; “ and although my courage 
never failed me till you came, then I thought I 
should have fainted.” 

“ But how came you alone and on foot, and 
at such an hour, too? Where had you been ?” 

These questions he put with a sort of stern 
resolution, that showed no evasive answer would 
rescue her. ' - , . 


* 


“ Did you leave home without a carriage, or 
even a servant?” asked he again, as no answer 
was returned to his former question. 

“ I did take a carriage in the morning ; and 


—and-” 


“ Sent it away again,” continued George, im- 
petuously. “ And where did you drive to— 
where pass the day?” 

Kate hung her head in silence, while her 
heart felt as if it would burst from very 
agony. .. % 

“This is no idle curiosity of mine, Miss Dal- 
ton,” said he, speaking with a slow and meas- 
ured utterance. “ The society you have mixed 
with here is not above any reproach, nor be- 
neath any suspicion. I insist upon knowing 
where you have been, and with whom? So, 
then, you refuse to speak — you will not tell. 
If it be Lady Hester’s secret — ” 

“ No, no ! The secret is mine, and mine 
only. I swear to you, by all we both believe 
in, that it has no concern with any one save 
myself.” 

“And can you not confide it to me? Have 
I no right to ask for the confidence, Kate?” 
said he, with tenderness. “ Know you any one 
more deeply and sincerely your friend than I 
am ? more ready to aid, protect, or counsel 
you ?” 

“ But this I can not — must not tell you,” 
said she, in accents broken by sobbing. 

“ Let me know, at least, enough to refute 
the insolence of an imputation upon your con- 
duct. I can not tamely sit by and hear the 
slanderous stories that, to-morrow or next day, 
will gain currency through the town.” 

“I can not — I can not,” was all that she 
could utter. 

“ If not me, then, choose some other defender. 
Unprotected and undefended you must not be.” 

“ I need none, sir ; none will asperse me !” 
said she, haughtily. 

“ What ! you say this ? « while scarce five 
minutes since I saw you outraged — insulted in 
the open street.” 

A burst of tears, long repressed, here broke 
from Kate, and for some minutes her sobs alone 
were heard in the silence. 

“ I will ask but one question more, Miss 
Dalton,” said George, slowly, as the carriage 
passed under the arched gateway of the palace, 
“ and then this incident is sealed to me forever. 
Is this secret — whatever it be — in your own 
sole keeping ? or is your confidence shared in 
by another?” 

“It is,” murmured Kate, below her breath. 

“You mean that it is shared ?” asked he, 
eagerly. 

“Yes: Mr. Jekyl at least knows — ” 

“Jekyl!” cried George, passionately ; “and 
is Alfred Jekyl your adviser and your confi- 
dant ? Enough — you have told me quite 
enough,” said he, dashing open the door of the 
carriage as it drew up at the door. He gave 
his hand to Kate to alight, and then, turning 
away, left her, without even a “good-by,” 


166 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


while Kate hurried to her room, her heart al- 
most breaking with agony. 

“I shall be late, Nina,” said she, affecting 
an air and voice of unconcern, as she entered 
her room ; “you must dress me rapidly.” 

“ Mademoiselle must have been too pleas- 
antly engaged to remember the hour,” said the 
other, with an easy pertness quite different from 
her ordinary manner. More struck by the tone 
than by the words themselves, Kate turned a 
look of surprise on the speaker. 

“It is so easy to forget one’s self at Mor- 
lache’s, they say,” added the girl, with a saucy 
smile ; and although stung by the impertinence, 
Kate took no notice of the speech. “ Made- 
moiselle will of course never wear that dress 
again,” said Nina, as she contemptuously threw j 
from her the mud-stained and rain-spotted dress 
she had worn that morning. “ We have a 
Basque proverb, mademoiselle, about those who 
go out in a carriage and come back on foot.” 

“ Nina, what do you mean by these strange 
words, and this still more strange manner ?” 
asked Kate, with a haughtiness she had never 
before assumed toward the girl. 

“ I do not pretend to say that mademoiselle 
has not the right to choose her confidants, but 
the Principessade San Martello and the Duchessa 
de Rivoli did not think me beneath their notice.” 

“ Nina, you are more unintelligible than 
ever,” cried Kate, who still, through all the 
dark mystery of her words, saw the lowering 
storm of coming peril. 

“ I may speak too plainly — too bluntly, 
mademoiselle, but I can scarcely be reproached 
with equivocating; and I repeat that my former 
mistresses honored me with their secret confi- 
dence, and they did wisely, too, for I should 
have discovered every thing of myself, and my 
discretion would not have been fettered by a 
compact.” 

“But if I have no secrets,” said Kate, draw- 
ing herself up with proud disdain, “ and if I 
have no need either of the counsels or the dis- 
cretion of my waiting- woman ?” 

“In that case,” said Nina, quietly, “made- 
moiselle has only periled herself for nothing. 
The young lady who leaves her carriage and 
her maid to pass three hours at Morlache’s, 
and returns thence, on foot, after nightfall, may 
truly say she has no secrets — at least so far as 
the city of Florence is concerned.” 

“ This is insolence that you never permitted 
yourself before,” said Kate, passionately. J 


“ And yet, if I were mademoiselle’s friend 
instead of her servant, i should counsel her to 
bear it.” 

“ But I will not,” cried Kate, indignantly. 
“ Lady Hester shall know of your conduct this 
very instant.” 

“ One moment, mademoiselle : just one mo- 
ment,” said Nina, interposing herself between 
Kate and the door. “ My tongue is oftentimes 
too ready, and I say things for which I am 
deeply sorry afterward ; forgive me, I beg and 
beseech you, if I have offended ; reject my 
counsels, disdain my assistance, if you will, but 
do not endanger yourself in an instant ol anger. 
If you have but little control over your temper, 
I have even less over mine ; pass out of that 
j door as my enemy, and I am yours to the last 
hour of my life.” 

There was a strange and almost incongruous 
mixture of feeling in the way she uttered these 
words ; at one moment abject in submission, 
and at the next hurling a defiance as haughty 
as though she w T ere an injured equal. The con- 
flict of the girl’s passion, which first flushed, 
now left her pale as death, and trembling in 
every limb. Her emotion bespoke the most in- 
tense feeling, and Kate stood like one spell-bound 
before her. Her anger had already passed 
away, and she looked with almost a sense of 
compassion at the excited features and heaving 
bosom of the Spanish girl. 

“ You wrong yourself and me, too, Nina,” 
said Kate Dalton, at last. “ Lhave every trust 
in your fidelity, but I have no occasion to test 
it.” 

“ Be it so, mademoiselle,” replied the other, 
with a courtesy. 

“ Then all is forgotten,” said Kate, affecting 
a gayety she could not feel ; “ and now let me 
hasten down stairs, for I am already late.” 

“ The prince will have thought it an hour, 
mademoiselle,” said the girl ; the quiet demure- 
ness of her manner depriving the words of any 
semblance of impertinence. If Kate looked 
gravely, perhaps some little secret source of 
pleasure lay hid within her heart, and in the 
glance she gave at her glass, there was an air 
of conscious triumph that did not escape the 
lynx-eyed Nina. 

“ My lady is waiting dinner, Miss Dalton,” 
said a servant, as he tapped at the door; and 
Kate, with many a trouble warring in her breast, 
hastened down stairs, in all the pride of a loveli 
ness that never was more conspicuous 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


“PROPOSALS.” 


Kate found Lady Hester, the prince, and Mr. 
Jekyi awaiting her as she entered the drawing- 
room, all looking even more bored and out of 
sorts than people usually do who have been kept 
waiting for their dinner. 

4< Every body has sworn to be as tiresome and 
disagreeable as possible to-day,” said Lady Hes- 
ter. “ George said he’d dine here, and is not 
coming ; Lord Norwood promised, and now 
writes me word thaj; an unavoidable delay de- 
tains him ; and here comes Miss Dalton — the 
mirror of punctuality when all else are late — a 
full half-hour after the time. There, dear — no 
excuses ncr explanations about all you have 
been doing — the thousand calls you’ve made, 
and shops you’ve ransacked. I’m certain you’ve 
had a miserable day of it.” 

Kate blushed deeply, and dreaded to meet 
Jekyl’s eye; but when she did, that little glassy 
orb was as blandly meaningless as any that ever 
rattled in the head of a Dutch doll. Even as he 
gave his arm to lead her in to dine, nothing 
in his manner or look betrayed any thing like 
a secret understanding between them. A by- 
stander might have deemed him a new acquaint- 
ance. 

“ Petits diners” have generally, the preroga- 
tive of agreeability — they are the chosen re- 
unions of a few intimates, who would not dilute 
their pleasantry even by a single bore. They 
are also the bright occasions for those little 
culinary triumphs which never can be attempted 
in a wider sphere. Epigrams, whether of lamb 
or language, require a select and special jury to 
try them ; but just in the same proportion as the 
success of such small parties is greater, so is 
their utter failure when by any mischance there 
happens a break-down in the good spirits or 
good humor of the company. 

We have said enough to show that the ladies, 
at least, might be excused for not displaying 
those thousand attractions of conversation which 
all centre on the one great quality — ease of 
mind. The prince was more than usually out 
of sorts, a number of irritating circumstances 
having occurred to him during the morning. 
A great sovereign — on whom he had lavished 
the most profuse attentions — had written him a 
letter of thanks, through his, private secretary, 
inclosing a snuff-box, instead of sending him an 
autograph, and the first, class of the national 
order. His glover, in Paris, had forgotten to 


> ' f * . ‘ * 

" • ) / - • .. v • * " * ; ' \ 

make his right hand larger than the left, and a 
huge packet that had just arrived was conse- 
quently useless. His chef had eked out a salmi 
of ortolans by a thrush, and it was exactly that 
unlucky morsel the cardinal had helped himself 
to at breakfast, and immediately sent his platei 
away in disappointment. Rubion, too, his ninth 
secretary, had flatly refused to marry a little 
danteuse that had just come out in the ballet — • 
a piece of insolence and rebellion on his part not 
to be tolerated ; and when we add to these griefs 
an uncomfortable neckcloth, and the tidings of 
an insurrection in a Russian province where he 
owned immense property in mines, his state of 
irritability may be leniently considered. 

Jekyi, if truth were told, had as many trou- 
bles of his own to confront as any of the rest. 
If the ocean he sailed in was not a great At- 
lantic— his bark was still but a cockle-shell — 
his course in life required consummate skill and 
cleverness, and yet never could be safe even 
with that. Notwithstanding all this, he alone 
was easy, natural, and agreeable — not as many 
an inferior artist would have been agreeable, by 
any over-effort to compensate for the lack of co- 
operation in others, and thus make their silence 
and constraint but more palpable — his pleasantry 
was tinged w T ith the tone of the company, and 
all his little smartnesses were rather insinuated 
than spoken. Quite satisfied if the prince list- 
ened, or Lady Hester smiled — more than re- 
warded when they once both laughed at one of 
his sallies — he rattled on about the court and 
the town talk, the little scandals of daily his- 
tory, and the petty defections of those dear 
friends they nightly invited to their houses. 
While thus, as it were, devoting himself to 
the amusement of the others, his real occupa • 
tion was an intense study of their thoughts, what 
was uppermost in their minds, and in what 
train their speculations were following. He had 
long suspected the prince of being attracted by 
Kate Dalton — now he was certain of it. Ac- 
customed almost from childhood to be flattered 
on every hand, and to receive the blandest smiles 
of beauty every where, Midchikoff’s native dis- 
trust armed him strongly against such seduc- 
tions, and had Kate followed the path of others, 
and exerted herself to please him, her failure 
would have been certain. It was her actual 
indifference — her perfect carelessness on the 
subject — was the charm to his eyes, and he felt 


168 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


it quite a new and agreeable sensation not to be 
made love to. 

Too proud of her own Dalton blood to feel 
any elevation by the marked notice of the great 
Russian, she merely accorded him so much of 
her favor as his personal agreeability seemed to 
■warrant; perhaps no designed flattery could 
have been so successful ! Another feeling, also, 
enhanced his admiration of her. It was a part 
of that barbaric instinct which seemed to sway 
all his actions, to desire the possession of what- 
ever was unique in life. Those forms or fancies 
of which nature stamps but one, and breaks the 
die — these were a passion with him. To pos- 
sess a bluer turquoise than any king or kaiser — 
to own an Arab of some color never seen before 
— to have a picture by some artist who never 
painted but one ; but whether it were a gem, a 
vase, a weapon, a diamond, or a dog, its value 
had but one test — that it had none its exact 
equal. Now, Kate Dalton realized these con- 
ditions more than any one he had ever met. 
Her very beauty was peculiar ; combining, with 
much of feminine softness and delicacy, a degree 
of determination and vigor of character, that to 
Midchikoff smacked of queenly domination. 
There was a species of fierte about her that 
distinguished her among other women. All 
that he had seen done by an illustrious title and 
a diamond tiara, she seemed capable of effecting 
in the simplest costume and without an effort. 
All these were wonderful attractions to his eyes ; 
and if he did not fall in love, it was simply be- 
cause he did not know how. He. however, did 
what to him served as substitute for the passion ; 
he coveted an object which should form one of 
the greatest rarities of his collection, and the 
possession of whom would give him another 
title to that envy — the most delicious tribute the 
world could render him. 

There were some drawbacks to his admira- 
tion ; her birth was not sufficiently illustrious ; 
his own origin was too recent to make an alli- 
ance of this kind desirable, and he wished that 
she had been a princess — even “ a main gauche ” 
of some royal house. Jekyl had done his best, 
by some sundry allusions to Irish greatness, and 
the blood of various monarehs of Munster and 
Connaught, in times past ; but the prince was 
incredulous as to Hibernian greatness ; probably j 
the remembrance of an Irish diamond, once of- 
fered him for sale, had tinged his mind with this 
sense of disparagement as to all Irish magnifi- 
cence. Still Kate rose above every detracting 
influence, and he thought of the pride in which 
he should parade her through Europe as his 
own. 

Had she been a barb, or a bracelet, an antique 
cup, or a Sevres jar, he never would have hesi- 
tated about the acquisition. Marriage, however, 
was a more solemn engagement; and he did not 
quite fancy any purchase that cost more than 
mere money. Nothing but the possibility of 
losing her altogether could have overcome this 
cautious scruple; and Jekyl had artfully in- 
sinuated such a conjuncture. “ George Onslow’s 


attentions were,” he said, “quite palpable; and 
although up to this Miss Dalton did not seem to 
give encouragement, who could tell what time 
and daily intercourse might effect. There was 
Norwood, too, with the rank of peeress in his 
gift; there was no saying how an ambitious 
girl might be tempted by that bait.” In fact, 
the prince had no time to lose ; and, although 
nothing less accorded with his tastes than what 
imposed haste, he was obliged to bestir himself 
on this occasion. 

If we have dwelt thus long upon the secret 
thoughts of the company, it is because their 
conversation was too broken arid unconnected 
for recording. They talked little, and that little 
was discursive. An occasional allusion to some 
social topic — a chance mention of their approach- 
ing departure from Florence — some reference to 
Como and its scenery — formed the whole ; and 
then, in spite of Jekyl, whose functions of “ fly- 
wheel” could not keep the machine a-moving, 
long pauses would intervene, and each lapse 
into a silence, apparently more congenial than 
conversation. All this while Jekyl seemed to 
be reading the complex scheme of doubt, irres- 
olution, and determination that filled Midchi- 
koff’s mind. The stealthy glances of the Rus- 
sian’s eyes toward Kate — the almost painful 
anxiety of his manner, to see if she noticed him 
while speaking — his watchful observance of her, 
in her every accent and gesture — told Jekyl the 
struggle that was then passing within him. He 
had seen each of these symptoms before, though 
in a less degree, when the coveted object was a 
horse or a picture, and he well knew how nothing 
but the dread of a competition for the prize would 
rouse him from this state of doubt and uncer- 
tainty. . 

The evening dragged slowly over, and it was 
now late, when Lord Norwood made his ap- 
peai'ance. With a brief apology for not coming 
to dinner, he drew Jekyl to one side, and slip- 
ping an arm within his, led him into an adjoining 
room. 

“I say, Jekyl,” whispered he, as they retired 
out of earshot of the others, “here’s a pretty 
mess Onslow’s got in. There has been a fracas 
in the street about Miss Dalton. How she came 
there at such a time, and alone, is another mat- 
ter; and George has struck Guilmard — knocked 
him down, by Jove, and no mistake; and they’re 
to meet to-morrow morning. Of course, there 
was nothing else for it ; a blow has but one 
reparation — George will have to stand the fire 
of the first shot in Europe. 

J ekyl hated a duel. Had he been a member 
of the Peace Congress, he could not have detested 
the arbitrement of arms more heartily. It in- 
volved partisanship, it severed intimacies, it 
barred general intercourse, and often closed up 
for a whole season the pleasantest houses of a 
town. The announcement of a strict blockade 
never struck a mercantile community with more 
terror. To Norwood, the prospect was directly 
the opposite. Not only an adept in all the eti- 
quette and ceremonial of such meetings, he liked 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 169 


to see his name circulated in these affairs, as a 
kind of guarantee of his readiness to seek a 
similar reparation for injury. He had trusted 
for many a year on his dexterity at twelve paces, 
and he never missed an opportunity of sustaining 
the “prestige” of a u dead shot.” 

It was, then, with an ardor of amateurship 
that he narrated the various little preliminary 
steps which had already been taken. Merk- 
heim, the Austrian Secretary, had called on 
him, on the part of Guilmard ; and as, in a 
case so clear, there was little to arrange, the 
only difficulty lay in the choice of weapons. 

‘‘The Frenchman claims the sword,” said 
Norwood ; “ and it is always awkward to de- 
cline that proposition for a soldier. But I sup- 
pose George has about as much chance with 
one weapon as the other?” 

“You think he’ll kill him, my lord?” 

“ I think so. If the offense had been less 
flagrant or less public, possibly not. But a blow ! 
— -to be struck down in the open street ! I 
don’t see how he can do less.” 

“ What a break-up it will cause here !” said 
Jekyl, with a nod of his head in the direction of 
the drawing-room. 

“ It will send them all bac,t to England, I 
suppose ?” 

“I suppose it will,” added Jekyl, mourn- 
fully. 

“ What a bore ! It’s particularly unpleasant 
for me, for I hold some half-dozen of George’s 
acceptances, not due yet; and, of course, the 
governor will never think of acquitting them.” 

“I conclude it is inevitable — the meeting, I 
mean?” said Jekyl. 

“ To be sure it is. Onslow took care of that ! 
By the way, Jekyl, how came she there at such 
an hour, and alone, too ?” 

“ She had been shopping, I fancy, and missed 
the carriage. There was some blunder, I have 
heard, about the coachman drawing up at the 
wrong door.” 

“ No go, Master Jekyl. Don’t try it on with 
me, old fellow. You know all about it, if you 
like to tell.” 

“ I assure you, my lord, you give me a credit 
I don’t deserve.” 

“ You know the whole story from beginning 
to end, Jekyl. I'd back you against the field, 
my boy.” 

The other shook his head with an air of su- 
preme innocence. 

“ Then George knows it ?” added Norwood, 
half asserting, half asking the question. 

“ He may, my lord, for aught I can tell.” 

“If so, he’s treating me unfairly,” said Nor- 
wood, rising and pacing the room. “ As his 
friend in this affair, there should be no reserve 
or concealment with me. You can surely say 
that much, Jekyl, eh? What a close fellow 
you are!” 

“It is so easy not to blab when one has no- 
thing to tell,” said Jekyl, smiling. 

“ Come, there is something you can tell me. 
Where does that small corridor behind George’s 


apartment lead to ? There is a door at the end 
of it, and, I fancy, a stair beyond it.” 

“ That, if I mistake not, leads up toward Lady 
Hester — No, I remember now; it leads to Miss 
Dalton’s room.” 

“Just so; I could have sworn it.” 

“ Why so, my lord ?” asked Jekyl, whose 
curiosity was now excited to the utmost. 

“That’s my secret, Master Jekyl.” 

“ But the door is always locked and bolted 
from within,” said Jekyl, “ and there is no key- 
hole on the outside.” 

“I’ll not stand pumping, Jekyl. If you had 
been frank with me , perhaps I should have been 
as open with you .” ' 

For an instant Jekyl hesitated what course to 
follow. It might be that Norwood really knew 
something of great importance. It might be 
that his discovery was valueless. And yet, if 
it concerned Kate in any way, the information 
would be all important, his great game being 
to make her a princess, and yet preserve such 
an ascendency over her as would render her his 
own slave. - » 

“ She’s a strange girl that Dalton,” said Nor- 
wood. “ I wish she had about forty thousand 
pounds.” 

“ She may have more than that yet. my lord,” 
said Jekyl, drily. 

“ How do you mean, Jekyl ? Is there any 
truth in that story about the Irish property ? 
Has she really a claim on the estate ? Tell me 
all you know*, old fellow, and I’ll be on the 
square with you throughout.” 

Jekyl, who in his remark had darkly alluded 
to the prospect of Kate’s marriage with Midchi- 
koff, now saw that Norwood had totally miscon- 
ceived his meaning, and, like a shrewd tactician, 
determined to profit by the blunder. 

“Come, Jekyl, be frank and aboveboard. 
What are her prospects?” 

“ Better than I have told you, my lord,” re- 
plied he, coplly. “If I can not — for I am not 
at liberty to explain why — I am quite ready to 
pledge my word of honor to the truth of what I 
say, or, what your lordship will think more of, 
to back my opinion by a bet.” 

“ By Jove! that is news!” said the viscount, 
leaning his head on the chimney to reflect. 
“You are such a slippery dog, Master Jekyl, 
you have so many turnings and windings in you, 
one is never quite sure with you ; but supposing 
now, for argument's sake, that one thought of 
making this fair damsel a peeress, is there no 
hitch in the affair — no screw loose that one 
ought to look to?” 

“In her birth, my lord?” 

“No; d — n her birth. I mean about the 
tin.” 

“ I believe, my lord, that I can save you all 
speculation on the subject, when I say that pur- 
suit would be hopeless there. The Midchikoff 
has gained the start, and must win in a canter.” 

“ That Tartar fellow ! nonsense, man ; I know 
better than that. He’ll never marry any thing 
under royalty ; the fellow’s mother was a serf. 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


and he must wash that spot out of his blood 
whenever he can.” 

“ You are mistaken, my lord.. He only waits 
to be certain of being accepted to offer himself.” 

“Refuse him!” said Norwood, laughing; 
“ there’s not that girl in Europe would refuse 
him. If every decoration he wore on his breast 
were a stripe of the Knout upon his back, his 
wealth would cover all.” 

“ The prince would give half his fortune to 
be assured of all you say, my lord,” said Jekyl, 
gravely. 

“ By Jove ! one might make a good thing of 
it, even that w'ay,” said Norwood, half aloud. 
“ I say, Jekyl,” added he, louder, “ how much 
are you to have ? — nay, nay, man, there’s no 
impertinence in the question, we are both too 
much men of the world for that. It’s quite 
clear that this is your scheme. Now, what’s 
the damage ?” 

“ My lord, you are as flattering to my abili- 
ties as unjust to my character.” 

“ We’ll suppose all that said,” broke in Nor- 
wood, impatiently ; “ and now we come back to 
the original question — whether I can not afford 
to be as liberal as the Russian. Only be ex- 
plicit, and let us understand each oilier.” 

“ My lord, I will not insult myself by believ- 
ing I comprehend you,” said Jekyl, calmly. 

And before Norwood could detain him he 
left the room. , . r , 

“Jekyl, come back, man! just hear me out 
— 3 r ou’ve mistaken me ! Confound the cur,” 
muttered the viscount, “with his hypocritical 
affectation — as if I did not know his metier as 
well as I know my boot-maker’s.” 

Norwood walked noiselessly to the door of 
the salon and peeped, in. Lady Hester, the 
prince, and Jekyl were in earnest conversation 
in one quarter, while Kate sat apart, apparently 
engaged with her embroidery-frame, but, in 
reality, too deeply sunk in thought to notice 
the bright tints before her. Norwood entered 
listlessly, and strolling across the Voom, took a 
place beside her. She moved slightly as he 
drew forward his chair, and then, as she drew 
back her flounce, Norwood saw that it was of 
deep black lace. He coolly took out his pocket- 
book, wherein he had deposited the torn frag- 
ment, and regarding it with attention, saw that 
it perfectly corresponded with the dress. So 
leisurely, and with* such circumspection did he 
proceed, that several minutes elapsed before he 
looked up. 

“ You are meditative, my lord, to-night,” 
said Kate, at last, making an effort to relieve 
an awkward situation; “what are you thinking 
of, pray?” ' 1 ' 

“Admiring your dress, Miss Dalton, which 
strikes me as singularly beautiful and becom- 
ing.” 

“ Great praise this, from such an acknowl- 
edged judge as Lord Norwood,” said she, smil- 
ing. 

“ I prefer it to antique lace, which in general 
is too heavy and cumbrous for my taste ; I like 


these fine and delicate tissues, so frail and gos- 
samer-like — not but their frailty, like all other 
frailty, incurs occasionally a heavy penalty ; as 
here, for instance, you see, this has been torn.” 

“ So it has,” said Kate, with confusion, “and 
I never noticed it. What a quick eye you must 
have, my lord.” 

“And a sharp ear too, Miss Dalton,” said 
he, significantly; “in fact, I am one of those 
people whese every-day faculties do duty for 
what in others goes by the name of cleverness. 
It’s a great pity,” said he, looking down at the 
dress ; “ you see, Miss Dalton, what a false step 
can do.” 

“ And yet I can not remember 'when this oc- 
curred,” said she, assuming to misunderstand 
his equivocal expression. 

“ Not recall it — not a clew to the mishap ?” 
asked he, shrewdly. 

“ None,” said she, blushing at the pertinacity 
with which he clirng to the theme ; “ but it’s 
of no consequence.” 

“Would Miss Dalton think it very singular 
if I should be able to assist her memory ? 
Would she accept the service as kindly as it 
was proffered, too?” 

“ Really, my lord, you begin to speak in rid- 
dles,” said she, more than ever piqued at his 
persistence. 

“ And yet,” said he, following out the thread 
of his own thoughts, “1 am assuredly as safe a 
counselor as Alfred Jekyl.” 

Kate grew deadly pale, but never replied to 
this speech. 

“And certainly,” resumed he, “the man who 
speaks in his own name should ever take pre- 
cedence of an envoy.” ; 

“ My lord,” said she, firmly, “ the very little 
which I can understand of your words, implies 
a pretension to knowledge and influence over 
me, which I disdain to accept; but still I can 
not believe that you seriously mean to insult 
me.” 

“ Of course not,” said he ; “ I have come on 
a very different errand. If I did passingly 
allude to bygones, it was to show you that you 
can afford to be candid when I am frank. We 
too, united, would walk over the course, and no 
mistake — that’s what I was coming to. I don’t 
mean to say that the Russian is not richer — eh, 
gad ! there’s no disputing that — still, as to rank, 
a Peer of Great Britain, I take it, is the equal 
of any man. Not to remind you of the old 
adage about ‘a bird in the hand’ — I speak 
frankly, because you are your own mistress.” 

“ Kate, if Lord Norwood will excuse yon, 
come to me for one instant,” cried Lad} 1, Hester. 

“ Just say yes, before you go — or, if not yes, 
tell me that I have ground for hope,” whispered 
Norwood ; but she arose without speaking. 

“I’ll not stand a ‘hedge,’ by Jove!” said 
Norwood, sulkily; “play or pay — nothing else 
for me.” 

“ Allow me to pass you, my lord,” said Kate, 
courteously. 

“One word — off or on — Miss Dalton.” said 


171 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


he, vising and affecting to make way, while he ' 
still bar ed the passage. A proud, disdainful 
smile was all the reply she vouchsafed. 

“All right,” said he, insolently; “only re- 
member how we stand, Miss Dalton, and when- 
ever you want to repair the mischance of your 
lace flounce, don’t forget the piece is in my 
keeping and he opened the pocket-book as he 
spoke, and exhibited the fragment before her. 
Sick with a terror she could neither explain nor 
realize, she lay back again in her chair unable 
to move, while Norwood glided quietly away 
and left the room. 

“ Dear Kate, have you forgotten me all this 
time,” said Lady Hester, whom Kate now per- 
ceived was alone on the sofa; Midchikoff and 
Jekyl having retired into an adjoining gallery, 
where they walked slowly along side by side, 
deep in conversation. 

> “ You shouldn’t have suffered Norwood to 

engross your attention in that manner, my dear. 
The prince has been quite put out by it, and at 
such a moment, too — and how flushed you are. 
What has he been saying ?” 

“I can scarcely remember,” said Kate, con- 
fusedly. 

“ Well, it’s of no consequence, dear, because 
I have got something to tell you that would 
speedily make you forget it. You know’, Kate, 
how r I always prophesied wonderful things for 
you, just as I did before for poor Georgia.na 
Elderton, and she married a Rajah afterward, 
and died Begum of something ending in ‘ Bad.’ 
Indeed, I might say it ended in bad for herself, 
poor dear, for I believe she was poisoned. But, 
to come back, I alw r ays said that you, also, 
would have astonishing luck. I told Sir Staf- 
ford so. The first day I saw you, ‘ She’ll be 
like Georgiana,’ I said. ‘ You’ll see that girl in 
a wonderful position one of these days.’ It is 
not that men care for their wives more than 
formerly — I rather fancy the reverse, but they 
have got a most intense passion just now for 
beauty. Wealth and good blood were once the 
only requisites, but they are both disregarded 
now r , in comparison w 7 ith good looks. I suppose 
the fashion won’t last — it would be very absurd 
if it should — but, w’hile it is the mode, one 
ought to profit by it. Just as I am wearing all 
those horrid old brocades of my great grand 
aunt’s, with odious flowers of crimson and yel- 
low, now that the taste in dress is ‘ rococo,’ but 
of course in a year or tw T o people will recover 
their senses again, and pretty girls without 
portion be left for subalterns in the line, as 
Providence intended they should. Don’t you 
think so, dear ?” 

The brief question at the end of this long 
rambling speech would possibly have puzzled 
Kate to'reply to, had not Lady Hester been far 
too much occupied in her own speculations to 
care for a rejoinder. 

“ You’ll hear people talk a deal of nonsense 
about unequal marriages, and they’ll quote 
Heaven knows what instances of girls, generally 
Irish ones, picking up princes and royal dukes, 


j and all ending unhappily. Don’t believe a word 
of it, dearest; there’s never misery where there’s 
large fortune. The people who cry in velvet 
always shed rose-water tears, that don’t hurt 
the skin or spoil the complexion. Not that I 
can say so of myself,” added she, with a deep 
sigh ; but I am a creature apart. I fervently 
trust nature does not often form similar ones. 
Buccellini told me that I had a fifth pair of 
nerVes — I assure you he did. It was a very 
shocking thing, and probably he ought never to 
have mentioned it to me ; but it perfectly ex- 
plains the excessive sensibility of my whole 
nature — doesn’t it, dear ?” 

Kate smiled assent, and Lady Hester went on : 

“ Then, as to religion, my dear, I’m afraid, 
indeed, w r e all think too little about it. I’m 
sure I’m quite shocked at what I see in society. 
It was only the other night, Lady Grace Mor- 
ton kept her seat when the cardinal was speak- 
ing to her. I apologized to him for it afterward, 
and he said, with such a sweet smile, ‘ If these 
Protestants would only give us back our churches, 
we’ll forgive their keeping their chairs. The 
‘ mot’ was very pretty in French, and well 
turned — wasn’t it? Of course, then, you’ll 
make no obstacle about the Greek Church, 
which I believe is exactly like your own, only 
that the priest has a beard, which I think more 
becoming. It looks affectionate, too ; it always 
gives one the idea of devotion, a girl changing 
her faith for her husband; and really, in this 
tiresome age we live in, a new religion is the 
only new thing one ever hears of. Your excel- 
lent family — that sweet sister, and the dear old 
papa — will probably make a fuss about it; but 
you know, after all, how absurd that is ; and if 
you were to marry a Chinese, there’s no saying 
what strange creatures you’d have to pray to. 
You’ll have to go to Russia, but only for pre- 
sentation ; that over, the prince will obtain a 
renewal of his permission to reside abroad ; still, 
if you have to pass a winter at St. Petersburgh, 
it will be fat from disagreeable. The women 
are too fond of caviar and high play ; but they 
dress just as well as in Paris, and wear better 
diamonds. Midchikoff’s jewels are unequaled ; 
and, now that I think of it, there’s one thing 
I’ve set my heart on, and you must positively 
promise to give me — a little stilleto with an 
emerald hilt and handle. I have pined for it — 
there’s no other word — these three years. He 
wore it in London, and I have never had it out 
of my thoughts since. You can afford to be 
very generous, dearest. How I envy you that 
pleasure ! and the delight you’ll feel in provid- 
ing for poor papa and Mary — no, Elizabeth, I 
mean ; how absurd, I should say, Ellen. It 
was something about that tale of Elizabeth, tho 
Exile of Siberia, was running in my mind. 
The prince will do whatever you suggest, and, 
indeed, he has already hinted about your brother 
Frank joining the Russian service. He’ll have 
him named an officer in the Emperor’s Guard. 
You must insist, too, upon La Rocca being your 
own — settled upon yourself. They tell me it’s 


172 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the sweetest spot in the world ; and I’ll always 
live there when you don’t want it. I mention 
this about the settlement, because there’s no 
saying how men will behave. I’m sure I never 
could have anticipated such a return as I have 
met with from Sir Stafford. And then, you 
know, with a Russian, one can not be too 
guarded. Don’t you agree with me? Well, 
never mind, you’ll perhaps come round to my 
opinion later. But here comes the prince, and 
it will be as well you should retire, dearest. I’ll 
see you in your dressing-room, and tell you 
every thing.” 

And with this assurance Kate retired, with a 
head and heart as lull as ever young lady’s felt. 

Kate was hastening to her room, when a 
short, quick step behind her made her turn 
round, and she saw Purvis endeavoring to over- 
take her. 

“ Oh, I have you at last,” said he, puffing for 
breath ; “ and what a ch — chase I’ve had for 
it; I’ve been in fiv^ rooms already, and nearly 
had a f — f — fight with that Frenchwoman of 
Lady Hester’s. She’s a regular T — T — Tar- 
tar, she is, and almost boxed my ears for looking 
into a small case where my lady’s r — ringlets 
are kept ; ha ! ha ! ha ! I saw them, though, 
two long, and two short, and a pi — pi — plait for 
the back of the head. How she m — m — makes 
up at night !” 

“ I must say that you have the strangest 
mode of requiting hospitality,” said Kate, 
haughtily. 

“ It’s all very well to talk of hospi — hospi — 
hospi — ” Here a fit of gaping brought on 
coughing, which, after a violent struggle, ended 
in the forced utterance of the last syllable of the 
word, but with such fatigue and exhaustion that 
he seemed scarcely able to continue ; at last, 
however, he did resume. “ It’s all very well to 
talk of that, but we got in here by our own cl — 
cl — cleverness; at least by Zoe’s.” 

“ Less good-natured persons would find an- 
other word for it, Mr. Purvis.” 

“ So they would. Haggerstone called it a 
Ricketty stratagem. No matter ; we're in — 
ha ! ha ! ha ! — and he's out. The pr — pr — 
proof of the pu — pu — pudding — ” 

“ Will you excuse me, sir, if I say I must 
leave you?” 

“Don’t go, don’t go; I’ve something very 
important to — to tell you. And first, Zoe — my 


sister Zoe — wants to see you. The cook has 
been most im — im — impertinent to her. She 
says it was ginger he put in the macca — macca 
— macca — roni, instead of P — P — Parmesan ; 
all his truffles are only Piedmontese. That 
isn’t all : don’t be in such a h — hurry. They’ve 
changed the wine, too. We had Ch — Ch — ■ 
Chamberlin yesterday, and 1 they’ve given us 
P — Pomard to-day. How is that to be borne ?” 

“I really see but one remedy for it, sir,” said 
Kate, scornfully. 

“ So Zoe said ; that’s exactly her opinion. 
They must be sent away. Zoe knows a very 
ti — ti — tidy cook. He’s not a — a top-sawyer, 
you know, but he can r — roast a bit of beef, and 
makes a c — capital rice-pudding, and he’ll come 
for six dollars a month. Wouldn’t that be a 
sa — saving ? Zoe told him to c — call to-day, 
and speak to La — Lady Hester.” 

“ He will find that difficult, sir,” said Kate, 
dryly. 

“And as for the b — butler, such a J — J — 
Jackanapes I never saw; and Zoe would advise 
you to take little Pierretto — the fellow you see 
every day at the Pergola; he sells the tickets 
outside the door. He looks r — r — ragged 
enough now, but when he’s dressed — ” 

“ You must see, sir,” interposed Kate, “that 
these are details in which it would be both in- 
delicate and impertinent for me to intrude an 
opinion about.” 

“ Not when you li — live in the house ; not 
when you’re dome — dome — domesticated with 
the family. We’re all in the same bo — boat 
now; and Zoe says somebody must steer it. 
Now Lizetta, Zoe’s maid, would keep the k— 
keys herself.” 

“ Pray, remember, sir, that is Lady Hester 
Onslow’s house.” - 

“ Egad ! it w — won’t be long so, if she goes 
on as she’s d — doing. Martha saw the meat- 
cart come in this morning, and I had a p — p — 
peep into the servant’s hall when the fl — flun- 
kies were feeding, and such w — w — waste, such 
re — reckless — ” 

“ Good evening, Mr. Purvis ; I can not stay 
longer,” said Kate. And, before he could in- 
terpose a word, she hastened from the spot, and, 
passing rapidly up the stairs, gained her own 
room, leaving Purvis to bethink him over the 
mass of things he had not touched upon, and on 
which he had mainly intended to debate. 




t 




* i • "*■ } i ^ . i * ... 

mt 

CHAPTER XXXYIII. 

* - „ ‘ \ V 

' AN ARRIVAL. 


Let us go back a few hours in our history, 
and follow the short and burly figure which, 
emerging from the traveling-carriage in the 
court-yard of the palace, pushed his way through 
the noisy throng of duns, and entered the 
hduse. 

“ How are you Proctor ? how is your mas- 
ter?” said he, as he threw off his great-coat, 
and unrolled a capacious muffler from his throat. 
“ How is Sir Stafford ?” 

“ Oh, Dr. Grounsell, glad you’ve come, sir. 
It will be a real pleasure to my master to see 
you again, sir.” 

“ How is he, man ? how’s the gout ?” 

“ Poorly — very poorly, sir. Things have 
gone badly here, Doctor, since you left us,” 
said he, with a sigh. ^ 

“Yes, yes; I know it all; I have heard all 
about that. But his health — tell me of his 
health.” 

“ Greatly broken, sir. No sleep o’ nights 
without opium, and no real rest even with 
that.” * , 

“And his spirits?” 

“ Broken too, sir. He’s not what you re- 
member him, sir, nor any thing like it. No 
pleasant joke, sir, when any thing goes amiss, 
as it used to be ; no turning it off with his merry 
laugh ! He’s fretful and impatient about the 
merest trifles; and he that never wanted at- 
tendance, is now always complaining that he’s 
neglected, and deserted, and forsaken by all the 
world.” 

“ Does the captain come often to see and sit 
with him ?” 

“Every day, sir; but these visits do rather 
harm than good. Sir Stafford is vexed at what 
goes on in the house ; and Master George — I 
don’t know how it is — but he don’t calm him 
down, and they have oftentimes angry words 
together; not but my master is frequently in 
the wrong, and taxes the young gentleman 
with what 5 he can’t help ; for, you see, sir, my 
lady — ” 

d — n ! — I mean, tell me about Sir Stafford ; 
it is of him I want to hear. Does he read ?” 

“ He makes me read to him every day, sir, 
all about the money-market and railroad shares; 
sometimes twice over, indeed ; and when I ask 
if he wouldn’t like to hear about what goes on 
in politics, he alwa3 r s says, ‘No, Proctor, lets 
have the city article again.’” 


“ And his letters — doesn’t he read them ?” 

“The captain reads them for him, sir; and 
now and then writes the answers, for he can’t 
hold a pen himself ! Oh, you’ll not know him 
when you see him ! He that was so large and 
fine a man, I lift him in and out of bed as if he 
were a baby.” 

“ Has he no acquaintance here ?” 

“ None, sir.” 

“ Are there no inquiries after his health ?” 

“ Yes, sir ; there’s plenty of people he used 
to give money to when he was up and about — 
poor actors, and painters, and the like — they 
come every day to know how he is. Some of 
them leave begging letter's, which I never givo 
him ; but most go away without a word.” 

“And his countrymen here: are there none 
who ask after him?” 

“No, sir. The only English we ever see 
visit my lady, and never come to this side of the 
house at all.” 

“Does Miss Dalton come to inquire for him?” 

“Every morning, and every night, too, sir. 
I suppose it must be without my lady’s orders, 
or even knowledge ; for once, when Sir Stafford 
was sitting up in his dressing-room, and I asked 
her if she wouldn’t like to come in and sit a 
few minutes with him, she turned away without 
speaking ; and I saw, from her manner, that 
she was crying.” 

“What are all these people outside? who 
are they ?” 

“My lady’s tradespeople, sir. They’ve heard 
she’s going for a few weeks to Como, and 
they’ve come with all their bills, as if she was 
a runaway.” 

“ Go and tell them to leave this — send them 
away, Proctor. It would do your master great 
injury were he to overhear them. Say that 
every thing shall be paid in a day or two ; that 
Sir Stafford remains here, and is responsible for 
all.” 

Proctor hastened out on his errand; and the 
doctor sat down and covered his face with his 
hands. 

“ Poor Stafford ! is all your trustful affection 
come to this ? Is it thus that your unbounded 
generosity, your noble hospitality, are requited ?” 

When Proctor returned, he proceeded to de- 
tail, for the doctor’s information, the various 
events which had occurred during his absence. 
With most, Grounsell was already acquainted, 


174 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


and listened to the particulars without surprise 
or emotion. 

“ So it is — so it is,” muttered he to himself; 
“ there may be more cant of virtue, a greater 
share of hypocrisy in our English morals, but, 
assuredly, these things do not happen with us as 
we see them here. There would seem a some- 
thing enervating in the very air of the land, that 
a man like him should have sunk down into this 
besotted apathy ! When can I see him, Proc- 
tor ?” 

“ He’s dozing just now, sir ; but about mid- 
night he wakes up, and asks for his draught. 
If that won’t be too late for you — ” 

“ Too late for me ! Why, what else have I 
traveled for, night and day, without intermis- 
sion? Be cautious, however, about how you 
announce me ; perhaps it would be better I 
should see the captain first.” 

“ You’ll scarcely find him at home, sir, at 
this hour ; he generally comes in between three 
and four.” / , 

“ Show me to his room. I’ll write a few 
lines for him in case we don’t meet.” 

Proctor accompanied the doctor across the 
court-yard, and, guiding him up a small stair, 
reached the terrace off which George Onslow’s 
apartment opened. The window-shutters of the 
room were not closed, nor the curtains drawn ; 
and in the bright light of several candles that 
shone within, Grounsell saw two figures seated 
at, a table, and busily engaged in examining the 
details of a ease of pistols which lay before them. 

“ That will do, Proctor,” said Grounsell ; 
“you may leave me now. I’ll be with you at 
twelve.” And thus saying, he gently pushed 
him toward the door of the terrace, which he 
closed and bolted after him, and then noiselessly 
returned to his former place. 

There were few things less congenial to 
Grounsell’s nature than playing the spy. It 
w r as a part he thoroughly detested ; nor did he 
think that it admitted of defense or palliation: 
still, the whole habit of his mind through life 
had impressed him with a disparaging opinion 
of himself. The limited sphere of his duties, 
the humble routine of his daily walk, and the 
very few friendships he had inspired, all tended 
to increase this impression, till at last he looked 
upon himself as one who could only be useful by 
the sacrifice of personal feeling and the abnega- 
tion of all self-esteem ; and thus he would have 
declined to know another man for what he 
deemed of no consequence in himself. His fault 
w r as not thinking too well of others, but thinking 
too meanly of himself. 

The scene before him now was enough to 
suggest deep anxiety. Notes and letters littered 
the floor and the table ; the embers of a large 
fire of papers lay on the hearth ; open drawers 
and boxes stood on every side ; all betokening 
preparation, the object of which the pistol-case 
sufficiently indicated. As they sat with their 
backs to the window, Grounsell could not rec- 
ognize the figures ; but the voice of one pro- 
claimed him to be George Onslow. 


“ And where is this place ? on the way to 
Arezzo?” asked he. 

“ No ; on the opposite side of the city, off the 
high road to Bologna. It is a little park, sur- 
rounding a summer palace of the grand duke, 
they call Pratolino,” said the other. “They 
all agree that it is the best spot to be found; 
no molestation, nor interference of any kind ; 
and a capital breakfast of fresh trout to be had 
at the inn.” 

“ An interesting consideration for such as 
i have good appetites,” said Onslow, laughing. 

“I never saw a Frenchman who had not, on 
such an occasion,” rejoined the Other, snapping 
the pistol, as he spoke. “ I like these straight 
stocks ; you are almost always certain of your 
man, with a stiff arm and a low aim.” 

“ I don’t know that I’ve forgotten any thing, 
Norwood,” said Onslow, rising and pacing the 
room with folded arms, 

“ You’ve written to the governor?” 

“ Yes ; and mentioned those acceptances,” 
said Onslow, with a sneering severity that the 
other never seemed to notice. “You’re quite 
safe, whatever happens.” 

“Hang it, man, I wasn’t thinking of that; 
curse the mone}q it never entered my thoughts.” 

“My father will pay it,” said George, dryly, 
and continued his walk. 

“ As you have alluded to it, I hope you spoke 
of it as a loan — any thing like a play transac- 
tion suggests a mess of scandal and stories.” 

“ I have called it a debt, and that is quite 
sufficient.” 

“ All right — whatever you like. And now 
about this girl. Do you intend to let this mys- 
tery continue, or do you think that, under the 
circumstances, Lady Hester should still retain 
her as a friend and companion ?” 

“I know of nothing to her disparagement, nor 
have I yet met one who does. That there are 
circumstances which she does not deem fitting 
to. intrust to my keeping is no just cause of al- 
legation against her.” . 

“ You are very honorable to say so, George; 
but I must confess, it is more than she deserves 
at your hands.” ' , /m 

“ How, do you mean ?” 

“ That she means to take the Russian — that’s 
all.” ‘ • 

“Well, and why not? Would not such a 
match be a brilliant one for a girl of much 
higher rank and pretension ?” 

“ What’s the use of all this fencing, man ?” 
said Norwood, half-angrily. “/ know better 
how matters stand. Do you remember the 
night you lost so heavily at Macao? Well, I 
was lying stretched on that sofa, yonder, by the 
light of the fire only, when the door opened, and 
she stepped gently in.” 

“What, Kate Dalton ?” 

“ Yes, Kate Dalton. Oh ! impossible if you 
like — deny it as much as you please, but she has 
not equal hardihood, that I can tell you ; and if 
she had, here is the proof that could condemn 
her — this fragment of her lace flounce was 


175 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


caught in the door as she banged it in her ! 
escape ; and tins very evening i compared it 
■with the dress in question ; ay, and showed her 
the rent from which it came.” 

Twice did George compel Norwood to repeat 
over this story; and then sat down, overwhelmed 
with sorrow and shame. 

“ You swear to me, then, Onslow, that you 
never saw her here — never knew of her com- 
ing?” said he, after a long silence between 
them. it' - f 1 k. 

“ Never, I swear !” said the other, solemnly. 

'“Then, some other is the fortunate man, 
that’s all. How good if it should turn out to 
be Jekyl!” And he laughed heartily at the 
absurdity of the conceit. 

“No more of this,” said Onslow, passionately. 
“ The tone of the society we live in here would 
seem to warrant any or every imputation, even 
on those whose lives are spotless ; and I know 
of no greater degradation than the facility of 
our belief in them. In this instance, however, 
my conscience is at ease ; and I reject, with 
contempt, the possibility of a stain upon that 
girl’s honor.” 

“ The sentiment does more credit to your 
chivalrj r than your shrewdness, George,” said 
the viscount, sarcastically. “ But, as you are 
about to stake your life on the issue, I can not 
impugn your sincerity.” 

A hasty movement of George toward the 
window here alarmed Grounsell, and he noise- 
lessly withdrew, and descended the stairs again. 

“ A precious mess of trouble do I find ready 
for me,” muttered he, as he passed across the 
court-yard. “ Debt, dueling, and sickness — 
such are the pleasures that welcome me ; and 
these not the worst, perhaps, if the causes of 
them were to be made known !” 

“ My lady has just heard of your arrival, 
doctor, and begs you will have the kindness to 
step up to her room,” said Proctor, coming to 
meet him. 

“I’m tired — I’m fatigued. Say I’m in bed,” 
said Grounsell, angrily. 

“ Her maid has just seen you, sir,” suggested 
Proctor, mildly. 

“ No matter ; give the answer I tell you — or, 
stay — perhaps it would be better to see her. 
Yes, Proctor, show me the way.” And mut- 
terin<i to himself, “ The meeting will not be a 
whit pleasanter for her than me” he followed 
the servant up the stairs. 

Well habituated to Lady Hester’s extravagant 
and costly tastes, Grounsell was yet unprepared 
for the o-orgeous decorations and splendid orna- 
ments of the chambers through which he passed, 
and he stopped from time to time, in amazement, 
to contemplate a magnificence which was proba- 
bly rather heightened than diminished by the un- 
certain light of the candles the servant carried. 
He peered at the china vases ; he passed his 
hand across the malachite and jasper tables ; he 
narrowly inspected the rich mosaics, as though 
doubtful of their being genuine ; and then, with 
a deep sigh — almost deep enough to be a groan 


— he moved on in sadness. A bust of Kate 
Dalton, the work of a great sculptor, and an 
admirable likeness, caught his eye, and he gazed 
at it with signs of strong emotion. There was 
much beauty in it, and of a character all her 
own ; but still the cold marble had caught up, 
in traits sterner than those of life, the ambitious 
bearing of the head, and the proud elevation of 
the brow. 

“And she has become this already!” said he, 
half-aloud. “ Oh, how unlike poor Nelly’s model ! 
— how different from the simple and beauteous 
innocence of those saint-like features !” 

“ My lady will see you, sir,” said Celestine, 
breaking in upon his musings. And he followed 
her into the chamber, where, seated in a deeply- 
cushioned chair, Lady Hester reclined, dressed 
in all the perfection of an elegant deshabille. 

Grounsell was, assuredly, not the man to be most 
taken by such attractions ; yet he could not re- 
main entirely insensible to them ; and he felt a 
most awkward sense of admiration as he surveyed 
her. With all a woman’s quickness, her lady- 
ship saw the effect she had produced, and lan- 
guidly extending her hand, she vouchsafed ihe 
nearest approach to a smile with which she had 
ever favored him. As if suddenly recalling all 
his old antipathies and prejudices, Grounsell was 
himself in a moment, and, scarcely touching the 
taper and jeweled fingers, he bowed ceremonious- 
ly, and took his seat at a little distance off. 

“ This is a very unexpected pleasure, indeed,” 
sighed Lady Hester $ “ you only arrived to- 
night ?” 

“ Half an hour ’ago, madam ; and but for 
your ladyship’s summons I should have been in 
bed.” 

“ How do you find Sir Stafford looking — poor- 
ly, I fear?” 

“ I hav’n’t yet seen him, madam, but I am. 
prepared for a great change.” 

“I fear so,” sighed she, plaintively; “ George 
says, quite a break-up, and Buccellini calls it 
1 Gotta Affievolita,’ and says it is very fatal 
with elderly people.” 

“ The vulgar phrase of a 1 broken heart’ is 
more expressive, madam, and perhaps quite as 
pathological.” 

Lady Hester drew proudly up, and seemed 
preparing herself for a coming encounter. They 
were old antagonists, and well knew each other’s 
mode of attack. On the present occasion, how- 
ever, Grounsell did not seek a contest, and was 
satisfied by a single shot at the enemy, as if 
trying the range of his gun. 

“ You will probably advise a change of air 
and scene, Doctor Grounsell,” said she, calmly, 
and as though inviting pacific intercourse. 

“It is precisely what I have come -for, 
madam,” answered he, in a short, dry voice. 
“ Sir Stafford’s affairs require his immediate 
return to England. The vicissitudes that attend 
on great commercial enterprises threaten him 
with large — very large losses.” 

Lady Hester fell back in her chair, and this 
time, at least, her pale cheek and her powerless 


176 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


attitude were not feigned nor counterfeited ; but 
Grounsell merely handed her a smelling-bottle 
from the table, and went on : 

“ The exact extent of his liabilities can not 
be ascertained at once, but they must be con- 
siderable. He will be fortunate if there remain 
to him one-fourth of his property.” 

Lady Hester’s head fell heavily back, and she 
fainted away. 

The doctor rose, and sprinkled her forehead 
with water, and then patiently sat down with 
his finger on her wrist to watch the returning 
tide of circulation. Assured at length of her 
restored consciousness, he went on : 

“ A small establishment, strict economy, a 
watchful supervision of every domestic arrange- 
ment, together with the proceeds of the sale of 
all the useless trumpery by which he is at 
present surrounded, will do much; but he must 
be seconded, madam — seconded and aided, not 
thwarted and opposed. George can exchange 
into a regiment in India; the proper steps have 
been already taken for that purpose.” 

“ Have you been thoughtful enough, sir, in 
your general care of this family, to engage a 
small house for us at Brighton?” 

“ I have seen one at Ramsgate, madam,” 
replied he, dryly ; “ but the rent is more than 
we ought to give.” 

“ Are we so very poor as that, sir ?” said she, 
sarcastically, laying emphasis on the pronoun. 

“ Many excellent and worthy persons, madam, 
contrive to live respectably on less.” 

“ Is Miss Onslow to go out as a governess. 





V 

* ♦ • / 


doctor?. I am afraid you have forgotten her 
share in these transactions?” 

“ 1 have a letter from her in my pocket, 
madam, would show that she herself is not 
guilty of this forgetfulness, wherein she makes 
the very proposition you allude to.” 

“ And me ? Have you no sphere of self-denial 
and duty — have you no degrading station, nor 
menial servitude, adapted to my habits?” 

“1 know of none, madam,” said Grounsell, 
sternly. “ Varnish will no more make a picture, 
than fine manners prove a substitute for skill or 
industry.” 

“ This is really too much, sir,” said she, ris- 
ing, her face now crimson with anger; “and 
even if all you have said prove true, reverse of 
fortune can bring no heavier infliction than the 
prospect of your intimacy and obtrusive coun- 
sels.” 

“You may not need them, madam. In ad- 
versity,” said Grounsell, with a smile, “healthy 
stomachs get on very well without bitters.” 
And so saying, he bowed and left the room. 

For a few moments Lady Hester sat over- 
whelmed by the tidings she had just heard, and 
then, suddenly rising, she rung the bell for her 
maid. 

“ Send Miss Dalton to me, Celestine ; say I 
wish to speak to her immediately,” said she. 
“This may be the last time we shall speak to 
each other ere we invert our positious,” mut- 
tered she to herself. And in the working of 
her features might be read all the agony of the 
reflection. 


* . j 

J 



X 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


( 


“ PRATOLINO.” 

V • . * Vi • * i f ' 


How like the great world is every little sec- 
tion of it ! How full of all its passions and in- 
terests, its warring jealousies, and its selfish 
struggles ! Within the Mazzarini Palace, that 
night, were at work every emotion and senti- 
ment which sway the wide communities of men; 
and Hope and Fear, the yearnings of Ambition, 
and the gloomy forebodings of Despair, sat beside 
the pillows of those who, in vain, sought sleep 
and forgetfulness ! 

Before that long night ended, Sir Stafford had 
learned his ruin — for it was little less. Kate 
had yielded, to the pressing entreaties of Lady 
Hester, her consent to accept Midchikoff; and, 
just as day was breaking, George Onslow stole 
to his father’s bedside, to see him once more — 
perhaps for the last time ! It would be difficult 
to say in which of those three hearts the darkest 
sorrow brooded ! With noiseless step, and cau- 
tious gesture, George crossed the little sitting- 
room, and entered his father’s chamber; and, 
without awaking the servant, who kept watch 
habitually without, but now had dropped off to 
sleep, he gained the bed-side, and sat down. 

The terrible tidings he had just heard were 
evidently working on Sir Stafford’s brain, and, 
despite all the influence of his opiate, still en- 
gnged^his faculties ; for his lips continued to 
move rapidly, and short broken sentences fell 
from him incessantly, “ Poor George ! poor 
George !” he muttered from time to time, and 
the tears rolled down the young man’s cheek as 
he heard them. 

“ How unworthy of him have I been !” thought 
he ; “ how shamefully unworthy and forgetful ! 
Here should have been my place, for those hours 
which I have spent in noisy dissipation and de- 
bauch ; and now I come for the first time, and 
probably the last ! Oh, my poor father ! how 
will you bear up against the shock that is pre- 
paring for you ? — for, with all my faults, I know 
how you have loved me.” A heavy tear dropped 
from him on the old man’s cheek as he said 
this, and gently brushing it off with his hand, 
Sir Stafford opened his eyes and awoke. A 
mild and gentle smile broke over his features 
as he saw his son beside him, and he drew him 
toward him, and kissed him. 

“ Have you been long here, George ?” said 
lie, affectionately. 

“ But a few minutes. I am so sorry to have 
disturbed you,” muttered the other, in confusion. 
M 


“ Have you seen Grounsell yet ? Has he 
told you?” asked Sir Stafford. 

“Grounsell? — no, sir. I did not even hear 
of his arrival. What are his tidings ?” 

“ The saddest, perhaps, one friend can bring 
another,” sighed Onslow, as he covered his eyes 
with his hand. “ Nay, nay — I am wrong,” said 
he, rapidly. “ So long as Sydney and yourself 
are spared to me, I have no right to say this ; 
still, George, it is a terrible blow that strikes a 
man down from affluence to poverty, and, in 
place of wealth and power, leaves him nothing 
but insignificance and ruin !” 

“ Good heavens, father ! is your brain wan- 
dering? What fancies are these that are flit- 
ting across your mind ?’* 

“ Sad and stern truths, my poor boy,” replied 
the old man, grasping his son’s hand in his 
fevered palm. “ A few weeks more will see 
the great House of Onslow bankrupt. These 
things can not be told too briefly, George,” said 
he, speaking with a tremulous and eager rapid- 
ity. “ One should hear misfortune early, to 
gain more time for future measures. A great 
crash has fallen upon the moneyed interest of 
England. The vast speculations in railways 
have overreached themselves ; failures of great 
houses abroad have added to the difficulty. 
The correspondents whose solvency we never 
doubted are tottering to ruin. Every post 
brings tidings of some new failure ; and from, 
Odessa, from Hamburg, and from the ports of 
the Baltic, to the distant shores of the New 
World, there is nothing but bankruptcy.” 

“ But you have large estates, sir ; you pos- 
sess property of various kinds beyond the reach 
of these casualties.” 

“ I own nothing to which my creditors have 
not a just right, nor, if I did, could I exercise 
the privilege of retaining it, George,” said the 
old man. “From what Grounsell tells me, 
there will be sufficient to meet every claim, but 
no more. There will remain nothing after ! 
Lady Hester’s settlement will, of course, secure 
to her a moderate competence ; and we — you 
and I — must look about, and see how we can 
face this same world we have been feasting so 
long. My time in it will needs be brief; but 
you, who may look forward with hope to long 
years of life, must bethink you at once of the 
new path before you. Arouse yourself, then, to 
the task, and 1 do not know but I may be proud*- 


178 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


er of you, yet, buffeting the wild waves of ad- 
versity, and fighting the manful part of a bold, 
courageous spirit, than I have ever been, in 
seeing you in the brilliant circle of all your high 
and titled acquaintances. Ay, George, the 
English merchant never died out in my heart, 
for all the aristocratic leaven which accident 
mixed up with my fortunes. I never ceased to 
glory in the pride of wealth accumulated by 
generous enterprises and honorable toil. I loved 
the life of labor that disciplined the faculties, 
and exercised not alone intelligence, but turned 
to use the gentler charities of life, linking man 
to man, as brethren journeying the same road, 
with different burdens, perhaps, but with the 
same goal. For myself, therefore, I have few 
cares. It remains with you to make them even 
fewer.” 

“ Tell me what you propose for me, sir,” 
said George, in a low, weak voice. 

“ First of all, George, you ought to leave the 
army. Grounsell, I must tell you, is not of 
this opinion ; he advises an exchange into a 
regiment in India, but I think differently. To 
repair, if it be possible, the shattered wreck of 
our fortunes, you must address yourself to bus- 
iness life and habits. You’ll have to visit the 
West Indies, and, probably, the East. We still 
possess property in Ceylon of value; and our 
coffee plantations there, as yet only in their in- 
fancy, need nothing but good management to 
insure success. Grounsell laughed at my sug- 
gesting you for such duties, but I know you 
better, George, far better than he does. The 
English pluck that storms a breach or heads a 
charge is the very same quality that sustains a 
man on the long dark road of adverse fortune. 
I have often told Grounsell that the stuff was in 
you, George.” 

The young man squeezed his father’s hand, 
but was obliged to turn away his head to hide 
.the tears which filled his eyes; for what a ter- 
rible deception was he practicing at that very 
moment, and what duplicity was there even in 
the silence with which he heard him ! 

For a few seconds Sir Stafford seemed to revel 
in all the bright visions of a warm fancy. The 
prospect his imagination had conjured up ap- 
peared to have momentarily lifted him above 
the reach of sorrow. He thought of his son 
engaged in the active business of life, and dis- 
playing in this new career the energies and re- 
sources of a bold and courageous spirit. He 
imagined the high-principled youth becoming 
the British merchant, and making the name of 
“Onslow” great and respected in the old arena 
of all their victories — the City of London. 
Could this but come to pass — were this dream 
to be realized, and he would bless the hour that 
wrecked his fortune, and thus made his poverty 
the foundation of future greatness. 

“ I confess, George,” said he, “ that I have a 
pride in thinking that I knew you better than 
others did, and that I read in the very wayward 
caprices of your disposition the impatience of an 
active mind, and not the ennui of an indolent 


one.” From this the old man branched off into 
his plans for the future ; and, as if the emergency 
had suggested energy, talked well and clearly 
of all that was to be done. They were to start 
for England at once. Sir Stafford felt as if he 
were able to set out that very day. Some weeks 
would elapse before the crash came, and in the 
interval every preparation might be taken. “I 
hope,” said he, feelingly, “that I have few 
enemies ; I am not sanguine enough to say, 
none ; but such as they are, they will not seek 
to humiliate me, I trust, by any unnecessary 
publicity.” The theme was a very painful one, 
and for a few seconds he could not go on. At 
last he resumed: “The extravagance of this 
household, George, will give much and just 
offense. It must be retrenched, and from this 
very day, from this very hour. You will look 
to this. It must not be said of us that, with 
ruin before us, we continued these habits of 
wasteful excess. Let these troops’ of idle serv- 
ants be discharged at once. Except Lady 
Hester’s carriage, sell off all equipage. Take 
no heed of what will be the town talk ; such a 
downfall as ours can never be kept a secret. 
Let us only take care that we fall with dignity. 
Grounsell will remain here after us to settle 
every thing, and our departure ought to be as 
speedy as may be. But you are not listening, 
George ; do you hear me ?” 

It was quite true George heeded little of what 
his father spoke ; for, with bent down head, he 
was trying to catch the sounds of what seemed 
a long low whistle from the court without. As 
he listened, the whistle was repeated ; he knew 
now that it was Norwood’s signal, and that 
“ his time was up.” 

“I must leave you, my dear father/’ said he, 
assuming all that he could of calmness. “ I 
have an appointment this morning, and one that 
I can not well shake off. Norwood and I have 
promised to meet some friends at Pratolino.” 

“It was of that same Norwood I wished to 
speak to you, George. The sophistry of think- 
ing him ‘no worse than his set’ will serve no 
longer. Such men are not fitting acquaintances 
for one whose character must be above reproach. 
Norwood is a most unworthy friend to you.” 

“ I scarcely ever thought of him in that light. 
We are intimate, it is true ; but such intimacy 
is not friendship.” 

“The greater the pollution of such acquaint- 
anceship, then,” said the old man, gravely. 
“ To see the dark side of such a nature, and 
yet live under its baneful shadow, is infinitely 
worse, George, than all the self-deception of a 
rash confidence. Keep your promise to-day, 
but I beseech you let it be for the las* time in 
such company.” 

Again the whistle was heard, and with it the 
sharp crack of a whip, denoting impatience; 
and fearful that some acoident might betray his 
secret, George clasped the old man’s hand fer- 
vidly within his own, and hurried away without 
a word. 

“Is that George?” cried Norwood, as he 


179 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


stood beside a calessino ready harnessed, and 
with lamps lighted, for the morning was still 
dark. “Is that George? Why, where have 
you been loitering this half-hour, man? Our 
time is six sharp, and it is now considerably 
past five, and the way lies all up hill.” 

“ 1 have often done the distance in half an 
hour,” said George, angrily. 

“ Perhaps the errand was a pleasanter one,” 
rejoined Norwood, laughing ; “ but jump in, for 
I leel certain the others are before us.” 

George Onslow was in no mood for talking 
as he took his seat, beside his companion ; the 
late scene with his father and the approaching 
event were enough to occupy him, even had his 
feeling for Norwood been different from what it 
was, but in reality never had he experienced the 
same dislike for the viscount. All the flippant 
ease, all the cool indifference he displayed, were 
only so many offenses to one whose thoughts 
were traversing the whole current of his life, 
from earliest boyhood down to that very moment. 
A few hours hence he might be no morel And 
thence arose to his mind the judgments men 
would pass upon him, the few-who would speak 
charitably, the still fewer who would regret him. 
What a career, thought he — what use to have 
made of fortune, station, health and vigor — to 
have lived in dissipation, and die for a street 
brawl ! And poor Kate ! to what unfeeling 
scandal will this unhappy meeting expose you ; 
how impossible to expect that truth will ever 
penetrate through that dark atmosphere of mys- 
tery and malevolence the world will throw over 
the event. 

Norwood was provoked at the silence, and 
tried in various ways to break it. He spoke of 
the road, the weather, the horse’s trotting ac- 
tion, the scenery — over which the breaking day 
now threw fitful and uncertain lights — but all 
in vain ; and, at last, piqued by non-success, he 
spitefully pointed attention to a little valley be- 
side the road, and said, “ Do you see that spot 
yonder, near the pine-trees — that’s where Harry 
Mathews was shot. Malzahn sent the bullet 
through the brain at forty paces. They were 
both first-rate pistol-shots, and the only question 
was, who should fire first. Harry determined 
to reserve his shot, and he carried the privilege 
into the other world with him. Malzahn knew he 
might trust his skill, and fired the very instant 
he took his ground. The moral of which is — al- 
ways try and have first fire with a foreigner.” 

“ I hear the sound of wheels behind us ; who 
are they ?” said George, not heeding either the 
story or the counsel. 

“The doctor, I suspect. I ordered a cales- 
sino to wait for him at the door of the palace, 
and bring him up as fast as possible.” 

“ If Guilmard be equal to his reputation, we 
shall not want his services,” said Onslow, with 
a faint smile. 

“ Who can tell ? We’ll put you up at a short 
distance, and there’s nothing shakes the nerve 
of your practiced pistol-shot more then ten or 
twelve paces.” 


The road here became so steep that they were 
obliged to get. down and walk for some distance, 
while the horse toiled slowly up behind them. 
As they went, Norwood continued to talk on 
incessantly of this, that, and t’otlier, as though 
bound to occupy the attention of his companion, 
while George, with half-closed eyes, strolled 
onward, deep in his own thoughts. 

“ We’re not far off the place now, George,” 
said Norwood at last, “ and I wish you’d throw 
off' that look of care and abstraction. These 
foreign fellows will be quite ready to misinter- 
pret it. Seem at your ease, man, and take the 
thing as I’ve seen you take it before — as rather 
good fun than otherwise.” 

“ But that is precisely what I do not feel it,” 
said George, smiling quietly. “Twenty-four 
hours ago, when life had every possible advant- 
age to bestow on me, with the prospect of an 
ample fortune before me, I was perfectly ready 
to turn out with any man who had the right to 
ask me ; and now that I am ruined — ” 

“Ruined!” broke in Norwood; “what do 
you mean ? You have not lost to that Greek 
fellow so largely as that?” 

“ Now that my father is on the verge of utter 
ruin,” repeated George, slowly — “the news 
came last night — I never felt the desire of life 
so strong within me. A few days or weeks 
more will make it public gossip, so I may tell 
you, that we have not escaped the torrent that 
is sweeping away so many of the richest houses 
in Europe ; and what between our immense 
liabilities and my father’s scrupulous sense of 
honor, the chances are we shall be utterly beg- 
gared.” 

“ The devil !” exclaimed Norwood, whose 
thoughts at once reverted to his own claims on 
George, and the unpaid acceptances he still 
held of his. 

“ That’s what I feel so strange,” said George, 
now speaking with a degree of warmth and in- 
terest, “that it should be exactly when life 
ceases to give promise, that I should care for 
it ; and I own to you, I'd give any thing that 
this meeting was not before me.” 

Norwood started, and turned his keen eyes 
on the other, but in the calm, unmoved features, 
he saw no traces of fear or even agitation ; and 
it was in his habitually calm voice Onslow re- 
sumed : 

“ Yes, I wish the count’s hand would shake a 
little, Norwood. I’d be most grateful to the bullet 
that would take to the right or the left of me.” 

“ Come, come, George, no more of this. We 
are alone here, it’s true ; but if you talk this 
way now, you may chance to look like it, by- 
and-by.” 

“ And if I do not my looks will strangely 
belie my sentiments, that I can tell you,” said 
Onslow, with a quiet laugh. “ I don’t care 
how you read the confession, Norwood, but I 
tell you frankly, that if the insult in this instance 
admitted of an apology — if there were any way 
to come off consistent with honor — I’d take it 
and not fight this Frenchman.” 


180 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ Have you forgotten his reputation as a 
shot?” asked Norwood, hastily. 

k ‘I was not thinking of it. My mind was 
dwelling merely on myself and my own inter- 
ests'. How fer my life, if preserved, could be 
rendered useful to others, and in what way my 
death might occasion detriment and injury.” 

“ A most mercantile estimate of profit and loss, 
by Jove!” said Norwood, laughing; “and per- 
haps it is fortunate for you there is no ‘ amende’ 
possible, for if Guilmard should miss you — ” 

“ As to these acceptances,” said George, not 
paying attention to what the other said, “ I’d 
prefer that they should not be presented to my 
father under our actual circumstances. My 
horses and carriages, and some other trumpery 
of mine, when sold, will more than meet them, 
and I have given orders to that end.” 

“ Come, old follow, it’s not gone that far yet,” 
said Norwood, affecting a tone of friendship, 
suggested by the self-satisfaction the promise of 
payment, afforded him. “ But hush ! There 
they are, all together. Let us talk no more of 
these matters; and now, George, for Heaven’s 
sake be cool,” 

Norwood drew the other’s arm within his own 
as he said this, and advanced to where a group 
of some half-dozen persons were standing, be- 
side a low balcony, overlooking the Val d’Arno 
and the graceful valley in which Florence stands. 
Norwood quitted his friend’s arm as he came 
forward and saluted the company. Nothing 
could possibly be more easy and unconstrained 
than the tone of their conversation, as they 
chatted away about the prospect beneath, and 
over which, like a gauzy vail, the gray shadow 
of dawn was hanging. With the exception of 
an Italian or two, they were all French — the 
young fashionables who were the loungers of 
the salons and cafes of the city. 

“ Have you breakfasted, my lord,” said one. 
“ If not, let me recommend some excellent cut- 
lets, which are not too cold, even yet.” 

‘ And the best chocolate I ever tasted out of 
Paris,” cried another. 

“ Thanks,” said Norwood. “ We’ll profit by 
the good counsel.” And, taking a cigar from 
his case, he lighted it from Guilmard’s, as, with 
hands in his paletot, he sat negligently on the 
wall, surveying the scene below him. 

“ Come, George, let’s have something,” whis- 
pered Norwood, eagerly, for the vacant and un- 
occupied stare of Onslow continued to cause the 
viscount the most intense anxiety. “ These fol- 
lows are affecting to be devilish cool. Let us 
not be behindhand.” And, rather by force than 
mere persuasion, he dragged Onslow along, and 
entered the little parlor of the inn. 

A large table, covered with the remains of an 
ample breakfast, stood in the middle of the room, 
and a dish of cutlets was placed to keep hot be- 
fore the stove. Several loose sheets of paper 
lay scattered about the table, on which were 
scrawled absurd and ill-drawn caricatures of 
duels, in which attitudes of extravagant fear and 
terror predominated. Norwood glanced at them 


for a moment, and then contemptuously threw 
them into the fire. 

“ Sit down, George,” said he, placing a chair 
for the other; “and, if you can not eat, at least 
take a ‘nip’ of brandy. Jekyl will be up. I sup- 
pose, in a few minutes. I told him to come with 
the doctor.” 

“I never felt an appetite at this early hour,” 
said Onslow; “and perhaps the present is not 
the time to suggest one.” 

“Did you remark Guilmard?” said Norwood, 
as he helped himself to a cutlet, and prepared 
his plate most artistically for a savory meal. 

“Did you observe him, George?” 

“No; I never looked that way.” 

“ By Jove ! he has got a tremendous scar on 
his cheek. The whole length, from the eye to 
the corner of his mouth. English knuckles do 
not certainly improve French physiognomy. A 
left-hander, eh?” 

“I remember nothing about it,” said Onslow, 
carelessly. . v 

“Well, you’ve left him a memorandum of the 
transaction, any way,” said the viscount, as tie 
ate on. “ And you w T ere talking about an ap_>l- 
ogy a while ago?” 

“I was wishing that the case admitted of 
one,” said Onslow, calmly. 

Norwood gave a sidelong glance at the speak- 
er, and although he said nothing, a gesture of 
angry impatience revealed what was passing 
within him. 

“Do try that brandy. Well, then, take a 
glass of Curafoa,” said he, pushing the bottle 
toward him. 

“ Something ! any thing, in fact, you would 
say, Norwood, that might serve to make my 
courage ‘carry the bead ;’ but you are altogether 
mistaken in me. It is not of myself I am think- 
ing ; my anxieties are — but what could you 
care, or even understand about my motives. 

Finish your breakfast, and let us make an end 
of this affair.” 

“ In one minute more I’m your man, but if I 
have a weakness, it is for a plain roast truffle with 
butter. It was a first love of mine, and as the 
adage says, ‘On y revient toujours.’ Were 1 
in your shoes, this morning, George, I’d not 
leave one on the dish.” 

“On what principle, pray,” asked Onslow, 
smiling. 

“ On that of the old cardinal, who, when his 
doctors pronounced his case hopeless, immedi- 
ately ordered a supper of ortolans with olives. 

It was a grand opportunity to indulge without 
the terror of an indigestion ; and a propos to 
such themes, where can our worthy doctor be 
all this time ? The calessino was close up 
with us all the way. 

Leaving Norwood to continue his meal, * 
George strolled out in quest of the surgeon, 
but none had seen nor knew any thing of him. 

An empty calessino was standing on the road- 
side, but the driver only knew that the gentle- 
man who came with him had got out there, and 
entered the park. 


181 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ Then we shall find him near the little ! 
lake,” said Norwood, coolly, as George return- ! 
ed, disappointed. But it’s strange, too, that he ! 
should be alone. Jekyl was to have been with 
him. These foreigners ever insist upon two 
seconds on either side. Like the gambler that 
always is calling for fresh cards, it looks very 
like a suspicion of foul play. Go back, 
George, and see if the fellow knows nothing of 
Jekyl. You’ve only to name him, for every 
cab, cad, and barcaruolo of Florence is ac- 
quainted with Master Albert.” 

George returned to the spot, but without any 
success. The man stated that he took his 
stand, as he was desired, at the gate of the pal- 
ace, and that a little man, apparently somewhat 
elderly, came out, and asked which way the 
others had gone, and how long before they had 
started. “ See that you pick them up, then,” 
said he, “ but don’t pass them. He talked in- 
cessantly,” added the man, “the whole way, 
hut in such bad Italian that I could make no- 
thing of it, and so I answered at random. If 
I were tired of him, I fancy he was sick of me ; 
and when he got out yonder, and passed into 
the park, it was a relief to us both.” 

George was just turning away, when his eye 
caught a glimpse of the glorious landscape be- 
neath, on which a freshly risen sun was shed- 
ding all its splendor. There are few scenes, 
even in Italy, more striking than the Val d’Arno 
around Florence, The beautiful city itself, 
capped with many a dome and tower, the gigan- 
tic Castle of the Bargello, the graceful arch of 
the Baptistery, the massive fafade of the Pitti, 
all, even to the lone tower on the hill where 
Galileo watched, rich in their storied memo- 
ries ; while on the gentle slope of the mountain 
stood hundreds of beauteous villas, whose ver}’- 
names are like spells to the imagination, and 
the Dante, the Alfieri, the Boccaccio, vie in in- 
terest. with the sterner realities of the Medici, 
the Pazzi, the Salviati, and the Strozzi. What 
a flood of memory pours over the mind, to 
think how every orange-grove and terrace, how 
each clump of olives, or each alley of cedars, 
have witnessed the most intense passions, or the 
most glorious triumphs of man’s intellect or 
ambition, and that every spot we see has its 
own claim to immortality. 

Not in such a mood as this, however, did 
Onslow survey the scene. It was in the rapt 
admiration of its picturesque beauty. The glit- 
tering river, now seen and lost again, the wav- 
in" tree tops, the parterres of bright flowers, 
the stately palaces, whose terraces were shad- 
owed by the magnolia, the oleander, and the 
fig, all made up a picture of rich and beautiful 
effect, and he longed to throw himself on the 
deep grass, and gaze on it for hours. As he 
stood thus, unable to tear himself away, he 
heard the sharp cracking of a postillion’s whip 
immediately beneath him, and, on looking down, 
saw two heavily laden traveling carriages, which 
all the power of eight horses to each, could 
barely drag along against the steep ascent. A 


mounted courier in advance proclaimed that the 
| travelers were persons of condition and every 
thing about the equipages themselves indicated 
wealth and station. As Onslow knew all who 
moved in a certain class in society, he was 
curious to see who was journeying northward 
so early in the year, and stepping into a little 
copse beside the road, he waited for the car- 
riages to pass. 

They came slowly forward, now, halting to 
“ breathe,” until the weary horses, now, strug- 
gling for a brief space against the hill, and at 
last, turning a sharp angle of the way, the first 
carriage drew short up, directly in front of 
where he stood. The panels bore the flaunting 
and pretentious arms of Prince Midehikoff, 
with many an armorial emblem, which, how- 
ever tolerated in the rest of Europe, the Czar 
would not suffer within his own dominions. As 
George glanced at these, he started, for a well- 
known voice caught his ear, and, forgetting his 
desire of concealment, he leaned forward to 
listen. It was Kate was speaking ; he could not 
hear the words, but the accents were her own. 
Oh, for one look at her — for the last time ! 
thought he ; and dashed headlong through the 
copse toward where, by another bend, the road 
made a rapid turn upward. 

Already the horses had regained their wind, 
and were away at a brisk trot, as George 
tore onward through the closely interwoven 
branches and thick underwood of the grove. — 
There was no path, nor, once out of sight or 
sound of the road, any thing to guide him ; but 
he dashed on, in the direction he supposed the 
carriage must take. At every step the way 
grew more intricate and difficult ; the pits the 
peasants dig for chestnut leaves, the little 
heaps collected for firewood, intercepted him at 
each moment. With torn clothes and bleeding 
hands, he still rushed madly, resolutely bent 
upon his object; and with many a bruise and 
many a scar, at last gained the open country, just 
in time to see the second carriage crowning the 
peak of the mountain above his head ; while he 
could hear the sharp, clanking sound of the 
drag as they fastened it to the leading carriage. 
Any attempt to overtake them on the hill must 
now be hopeless. He well knew the pace at 
which a Continental postillion descends a mount- 
ain, and how the steepest galleries of the Alps 
and Apennines are often galloped down at 
speed. For miles below him he could see the 
winding zig-zags of the road, and at each turn- 
ing he fancied how he might catch sight of her. 
The mountain itself was terraced with vine- 
yards, from base to summit ; but from the 
steepness of its side, these terraces were but 
narrow strips of ground, barely sufficient for the 
vinedresser to pass when tending his plants, or 
gathering in his produce. To look down on 
this giant stair — for such it seemed — was a gid- 
dy sensation, and few could have surveyed the 
precipitous descent without a sense of danger. 
Onslow’s thoughts, however, had but one ob- 
ject — to see Kate once, and for the last time. 


182 THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


By a straight descent of the mountain, leaping 
from terrace to terrace, it was possible for him 
to reach the bottom before the carriages could 
traverse the winding course of the road ; and 
no sooner was the thought conceived, than he 
proceeded to execute it. It is difficult to con- 
vey to those who have never seen these terraced 
flights of earth, a true notion of the peril of 
such an undertaking ; but they who have beheld 
them will acknowledge that little short of utter 
recklessness could dare it. Less leaping than 
dropping from height to height, the slightest 
impulse will carry the footsteps beyond the 
edge of the terrace, and then all self-control is 
lost, and destruction, to every appearance, inev- 
itable. ? 

The youth, whose nerves have been trained 
by the sports of fox-hunting and deer-stalking, 
however, is seldom unprepared for sudden dan- 
ger ; and George never hesitated, when once 
the undertaking seemed practicable. By side- 
long leaps he descended the first three or four 
terraces well and safely. Impressed with the 
risk of the exploit, he never turned his eyes 
from the spot whereon he meant to alight, and 
measured every bound with accuracy. Sud- 
denly, however, his attention was caught by 


*- \ 


» . 



the postillion’s bugle sounding, several hun- 
dred feet below him, and, in a bend of the road, 
he saw the dust left by the fast-descending car- 
riage. Forgetful of safety — of every thing, 
save his object — he leaped at random, and with 
a tremendous bound cleared one terrace com- 
pletely and alighted on the one beneath it. — 
The impulse drove him forward, and ere he 
could recover, he was on the very verge of the 
cliff. Even yet his presence of mind might 
have rescued him, when the loose masonry gave 
way, and carried him down with it. He fell 
forward, and headlong ; the force of the descent 
carried him on, and now, half-falling, half* 
struggling, he bounded from height to height, 
till, shattered, maimed, and bleeding, he rolled, 
an unconscious heap of clay, in the long grass 
of the valley. 

Not fifty yards from where he lay, the car- 
riages passed, and Kate even leaned from the 
window to gaze upon the winding glen, little 
thinking how terrible an interest that quiet 
scene was filled with. And so the equipages 
held their speed, and pressed onward ; while, 
with a faint breathing, poor George lay, sleep- 
ing that dreamless slumber that seems a coun- 
terfeit of Death. 


>■ r. > . 



CHAPTER XL. 


A MORNING OF MISADVENTURES. 


s : j - ; •• v\ 

ct Well, my lord, are we to pass the day 
here,” said Count Trouville, the second of the 
opposite party, as Norwood returned from a 
fruitless search of George Onslow, “ or are we 
to understand that this is the English mode of 
settling such matters ?” 

“ I am perfectly ready, monsieur le count, to 
prove the contrary, so far as my own poor abil- 
ities extend,” said Norwood, calmly. 

“ Rut your friend has disappeared, sir. You 
are left alone here.” 

“ Which is, perhaps, the reason of your hav- 
ing dared to insult me,” rejoined the other, 
“ that being, perhaps, the French custom in 
such affairs.” 

“ Come, come, gentlemen,” interposed an 
old cavalry officer, who acted as a second 
friend to Guilmard, “you must both see that all 
discussion of this kind is irregular and unseem- 
ly. We have come here this morning for one 
specific purpose — to obtain reparation for a 
great injury. The gentleman who should have 
offered us the amende has suddenly withdrawn 
himself. I offer no opinion on the fact that he 
came out accompanied by only one friend ; we 
might, perhaps, have devised means to obviate 
this difficulty. For his own absence we have 
no remedy. I w T ould therefore ask what you 
have to propose to us in this emergency ?” 

“ A little patience — nothing more. My 
friend must have lost his way ; some accident 
or other has detained him, and I expect to see 
him here every instant.” 

“ Shall we say half an hour longer, my lord?” 
rejoined the other, taking out his watch. “ That 
will bring us to eight o’clock.” 

“ Which, considering that our time was named 
‘sharp six,’” interposed Trouville, “is a very 
reasonable £ grace.’ ” 

“ Your expression is an impertinence, mon- 
sieur,” said Norwood, fiercely. 

“ And yet I don’t intend to apologize for it,” 
said the other, smiling. 

“ I’m glad of it, sir. It’s the only thing you 
have said to-day with either good sense or spirit.” 

“Enough, quite enough, my lord,” replied 
the Frenchman, gayly. “ Dans la bonne societe, 
on ne dit jamais de trop. Where shall it be, 
and when?” 

“ Here, and now,” said Norwood, ‘"if I can 
only find any one who will act for me.” 

“ Pray* my lord, don t go in search of him,” 
said Trouville, “ or we shall despair of seeing 
you here again.” 


“ I will give a bail for my re-appearance, 
sir, that you can not doubt of,” cried Norwood, 
advancing toward the other with his cane ele- 
vated. 

A perfect burst of horror broke from the 
Frenchmen at this threat, and three or four 
immediately threw themselves between the con- 
tending parties. 

“But for this, my lord,” said the old officer, 
“ I should have offered you my services,” 

“ And I should have declined them, sir,” 
said Norwood, promptly. “The first peasant 
I meet with will suffice and, so saying, he 
hurried from the spot, his heart almost bursting 
with passion. With many a malediction of 
George — with curses deep and cutting on every 
one whose misconduct had served to place him 
in his present position — he took his way toward 
the high road. 

“ What could have happened ?” muttered he ; 
“what confounded fit of poltroonery has seized 
him? a fellow that never wanted pluck in his 
life ! Is it possible that he can have failed now? 
And this to occur at the very moment they are 
beggared ! Had they been rich, as they were 
a few r months back, I’d have made the thing 
pay. Ay, by Jove! I’d have ‘coined my 
blood,’ as the fellow says in the play, and writ- 
ten a swingeing check with red ink ! And now 
I have a bad quarrel, and nothing to come of it ! 
and so to walk the high roads in search of some 
one who can load a pistol !” 

A stray peasant or two, jogging along to 
Florence — a postillion with return horses — a 
shabbily-dressed curate, or a friar with a sack 
behind him, were all that he saw for miles of 
distance, and he returned once more to interro- 
gate the calessino driver as to the stranger who 
accompanied him from the city. 

Any one whose misfortune it may have been 
to make inquiries from an Italian vetturino of 
any fact, no matter how insignificant or unim- 
portant, will sympathize with Norwood’s im- 
patience at the evasive and distrustful replies 
that now met his questions. Although the fact 
could have no possible concern or interest for 
him, he prevaricated and contradicted himself 
half a dozen times over, as to the stranger’s 
age, country, and appearance, so that, utterly 
baffied and provoked, the viscount turned away 
and entered the Park. 

“ I, too, shall be reported missing, I suppose,” 
said he, bitterly, as he walked along a littlo 
! path that skirted a piece of ornamental water. 


184 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ By Jupiter ! this is a pleasant morning’s 
work, and must have its reparation one day or 
other.” 

A hearty sneeze suddenly startled him as he 
spoke ; he turned hastily about, but could see 
no one, and yet his hearing was not to be de- 
ceived ! He searched the spot eagerly, he ex- 
amined the little boat-shed — the copse — the 
underwood — every thing, in fact, but not a trace 
of living being was to be seen ; at last, a slight 
rustling sound seemed to issue from a piece of 
rustic shell-work, representing a river god re- 
clining on his urn, and, on approaching, he dis- 
tinctly detected the glitter of a pair of eyes 
within the sockets of the figure. 

“Here goes for a brace of balls into him,” 
cried Norwood, adjusting a cap on his pistol. 
“ A piece of stonework that sneezes is far too 
like a man to be trusted.” r 

Scarcely was the threat uttered, when a 
tremulous scream issued from within, and a 
voice, broken with terror, called out, 

“ D — don’t fire, my lord. You’ll m — m — 
murder me. I’m Purvis — Sc — Sc — Scroope 
Purvis.” 

“ How did you come to be there, then ?” 
asked Norwood, half angrily. 

“ I’ll tell you when I g — get out !” was the 
answer; and he disappeared from the loophole 
at which he carried on the conversation for some 
seconds. Norwood began to fancy that the 
whole was some mystification of his brain, for 
no trace of him was to be had, when he emerged 
from the boat-house, with his hat stripped of the 
brim, and his clothes in tatters, his scratched 
face and hands attesting that his transit had not 
been of the easiest. “ It’s like a r — r — rat- 
hole,” cried he, puffing for breath. 

“ And what the devil brought you there ?” 
asked Norwood, rudely. 

“I ca — came out to see the fight!” cried 
he ; “ and when you’re inside there you have 
a view of the whole Park, and are quite safe, 
too.” 

“ Then it was you who drove out in the cal- 
essino meant for the doctor?” said Norwood, 
with the air of a man who would not brook an 
equivocation. 

“Yes; that was a d — d — dodge of mine to 
get out here,” said he, chuckling. 

“Well, Master Purvis,” said Norwood, draw- 
ing his arm within his own, “ if you can’t be 
the doctor, you shall at least be the 4 Second.’ 
This is a dodge of mine ; so come along, and no 
more about it.” 

“ But I ea — can’t ; I never was — I never 
could be a se — se — second.” 

“ You shall begin to-day, then, or my name’s 
not Norwood. You’ve been the cause of a 
whole series of mishaps and misfortunes; and, 
by Jove ! if the penalty were a heavier one, you 
should pay it.” 

“ I tell you, I n — never saw a duel ; I — I 
never f— fought one ; I never will fight one ; I 
don’t even know how they g — go about it.” 

“You shall learn, sir; that’s all,” said Nor- 


| wood, as he hastened along, dragging the mis- 
j erable Purvis at his side. “But for you, sir,” 
continued he, in a voice thick with passion — 
“ but for you, sir, and your inveterate taste for 
pimping into what does not concern you, we 
should have experienced no delay nor disappoint- 
ment this morning. The consequences are that 
I shall have to stand where another ought to 
have stood, and take to myself a quarrel in which 
I have had no share.” 

“ H — how is that? Do — do— do tell me all 
about it!” cried Purvis, eagerly. 

“ I’ll tell you nothing, sir ; not a syllable. 
Your personal adventures on this morning must 
be the subject of your revelations when you get 
back to Florence, if ever you do get back.” 

“ Why, I — I’m — I’m not going to fight any 
body !” exclaimed he, in terror. 

“ No, sir, but I am ; and, in the event of any 
disastrous accident, your position may be un- 
pleasant. IfTrouville falls, you’ll have to make 
for Lombardy, and cross over into Switzerland ; 
if he shoots me, you can take my passport, it is 
vise for the Tyrol. As they know me at Ins- 
pruck, you’d better keep to the south’ard — some 
of the smaller places about Botzen, or Brixen.” 

“ But I don’t know Bo — Bo — Botzen on the 
map ! and I don’t see why I’m to sk — sk-^-skulk 
about the Continent like a refu — refu — refugee 
Pole !” 

“ Take your own time, then ; and, perhaps, 
ten years in a fortress may make you wiser. 
It’s no affair of mine, you know ; and I merely 
gave you the advice, as I’m a little more up to 
these things than you are.” 

“ But, supposing that I’ll have no — nothing 
to do with the matter — that I’ll not be present 
— that I refuse to see — ” 

“You shall and you must, sir; and if I hear 
another word of objection out of your mouth, or 
if you expose me, by any show of your own 
poltroonery, to the ribald insolence of these 
Frenchmen, by Heaven! I'll hold your hand 
in my own when I fire at Count Trouville.” 

“ And I may be mu — mu — murdered !” 
screamed Purvis. “ An innocent man’s bl — - 
blood shed, all for nothing !” 

“ Bluebeard treated his wives to the same 
penalty for the same crime, Master Purvis. 
And now listen to me, sir, and mark well my 
words. With the causes which have led to thi» 
afiair you have no concern whatever ; your only 
business here is in the capacity of my second. 
Be present when the pistols are loaded ; stand 
by as they step the ground ; and, if you can do 
no more, try at least to look as if you were not 
going to be shot at.” Neither the counsel nor 
the tone it was delivered in were very reassuring ; 
and Purvis went along with his head down and 
' his hands in his pockets, reflecting on all th* 
44 accidents by fire-arms” he had read of in th» 
newspapers, together with the more terrible 
paragraphs about fatal duels, and criminal pro- 
ceedings against all concerned in them. 

The Frenchmen were seated in the garden 
at a table, and smoking their cigars, as Nor- 


185 


r l’HE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


■wood came up, and, in a few words, explained 
ti.at a countryman of his own, whom he had met 
by ehance, would undertake the duties of his 
friend. > 

u I have only to say, gentlemen,” he added, 
“ that he has never even witnessed an affair of 
this kind ; and I have but to address myself to 
the loyal good faith of Frenchmen to supply 
any deficiencies in his knowledge. Mr. Purvis, 
messieurs.” 

"1 he old colonel having courteously saluted 
him, took him to a short distance aside, and 
spoke eagerly for a few minutes, while Norwood, 
burning with anxiety and uneasiness, tried to 
smoke his cigar with every semblance of un- 
concern. 

‘'I'm sure, if you think so,” cried Scroope, 
aloud, “I’m not the m — man to gainsay the 
opinion. A miss is as g — g — good as a m — 
mile ; and as he didn’t strike him — ” 

“Tonnerre de Dieu ! Sir — strike him!” 
screamed the old soldier. “ Did you say strike 
him ?” 

“ No, I didn’t — I couldn’t have meant that,” 
broke in Purvis. “ I meant to remark that, as 
there was no mischief done — ” 

“ And who will venture to say that, sir ?” in- 
terposed the other. “ Is it nothing that a French- 
man should have been menaced?” 

“ That’s a gr — great deal — a tremendous 
deal. It’s as much as beating another man; 
I know that,” muttered poor Purvis, depreca- 
tingly. 

“ Is this a sneer, sir ?” asked the colonel, 
drawing himself up to his full height. 

“ No, no, it ain’t ; no, upon my soul I’m quite 
serious. 1 never was less disposed for a jest in 
my life.” 

“ You could never have selected a less oppor- 
tune moment for one, sir,” rejoined the other, 
gravely. “Am I to conclude, sir,” resumed 
he after a second’s interval, “ that we have no 
difference of opinion on this affair?” 

“ None whatever. I agree with you in every 
thing you have s — said, and every thing you in 
— intend to say.” 

“ Your friend will then apologize?” resumed 
the colonel. 

“ He shall — he must.” 

“ Simply expressing his regret that an un- 
guarded action should have occasioned a mis- 
conception. and that in lifting his arm he neither 
intended the gesture as a menace nor an insult. 
Isn’t that your meaning?” 

“Just so; and that if he had struck, he 
wouldn’t have hurt him.” 

“ Feu d’enfer ! sir, what are you saying ; or 
do you mean this for a mockery of us?” scream- 
ed the colonel, in a fit of passion. 

“You terrify me so,” cried Purvis; “you 
are so impe — impe — impetuous, I don’t know 
what I’m saying.” 

The Frenchman measured him with a glance 
of strange meaning. It was evident that such 
a character was somewhat new to him, and it 
required all his skill and acuteness to compre- 


hend it. “Very well, sir,” said he, at last, “I 
leave the details entirely to yourself; speak to 
your friend, arrange the matter between you. and 
let us finish the affair as speedily as may be.” 

“What is all this delay about?” muttered 
Norwood, angrily, as the other joined him; “is 
there any difficulty in stepping twelve or twenty 
paces?” 

“ None ; but w'e’ve hit upon a b — better plan, 
and you’ve only to say that you’re sorry for it 
all — that you didn’t m — mean any thing — and 
that you never did b — b — beat a Frenchman — • 
nor will you ever do so in future.” 

“ Why, what do you mean ?” asked Norwood, 
in astonishment. 

“ That we’ll all go back and lunch at the 
‘Luna;’ for there’s no — nothing to fight about.” 

Norwood pushed by him contemptuously, and, 
with hurried steps, walked up to where the old 
colonel stood. “ You are a French officer, sir,” 
said he, “ and I rely upon your honor that wheth- 
er from the ignorance or inaptitude of that gen- 
tleman, no blame may attach itself to me in this 
business. I have no apology to offer, nor any 
amende save one.” 

“Very well, sir, we are ready,” said the 
colonel. “ I will ask one of my countrymen to 
act for you, for I see you are in very indifferent 
hands.” 

And now, like men who were well accus- 
tomed to the task, they set about the details of 
the duel, while Purvis, being at full liberty, 
slipped from the spot, and retired into the wood. 

“ You’ve won the first fire; my lord,” said a 
young Frenchman to Norwood ; “ the conditions 
are twelve paces — back to back — to turn at the 
word, and fire.” 

Norwood bowed, and without speaking fol- 
lowed the other to the spot where he was to 
stand. As he waited thus, pistol in hand, he 
was directly opposite to the place wherein Pur- 
vis had taken refuge, and who, seeing Norwood 
in front of him, with a cocked pistol, and his 
finger on the trigger, uttered a scream of terror, 
and fell flat on the ground. Before the rest 
could discover the cause of the outcry, a shout 
from outside of the “Police” — the “ Gendarmes” 
— was heard, and Dr. Grounsell rushed into the 
garden, followed by several dismounted dra- 
goons. In an instant all were away ; Norwood 
sprang over a low balcony into a vineyard, while 
in various directions the others scampered off, 
leaving Purvis alone upon the field. 

But too happy to have fallen into the safe 
keeping of the authorites, Purvis accepted his 
captivity with a most placid contentment. 

“ Where’s Captain Onslow ? Have you seen 
him, sir?” whispered Grounsell to him. 

“ I have seen every body, but I don’t re — re- 
member any thing. It’s all a dr — dr — dream 
to me.” 

“ There was no duel ? They hadn’t fought ?” 
asked Grounsell. 

“ I — 1 — I think not ; pro — pro — probably 
not,” said Purvis, whose faculties were still 
very cloudy. 


186 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Grounsell turned away from him in disdain, 
and entered the house. To all his inquiries from 
the waiters of the inn the answers were vague 
and insufficient, nor could the doctor discover 
either what had occurred, or the reasons of the 
long delay on the ground. Meanwhile, the 
“ Carabinieri,” stimulated by liberal promises 
of reward, were searching the park in every 
quarter, and scouring the country around to 
arrest the fugitives ; and the peasantry, enlisted 
in the pursuit, hastened hither and thither to aid 
them. Whether really unable to come up with 
them, or, as is more probable, concurring in the 
escape through bribery, the dragoons returned 
to the inn, after about an hour’s absence, with- 
out the capture of a single prisoner. 

Grounsell cursed their Italian indolence, and 
reviled every institution of their lazy land. How 
he raved about foreign falsehood and rascality, 
and wished for a London Detective and a Magis- 
trate of Bow-street. Never did Lord Palmer- 
ston so thirst to implant British institutions in a 
foreign soil, as did he to teach these “ Macca- 
roni rascals what a good Police meant.” What 
honest indignation did he not vent upon all 
English residents abroad, who, for sake of a 
mild climate and lax morality, could exchange 
their native country for the Contiment. ; and at 
last, fairly worn out with his denunciation, he 
sat down on a bench, tired and exhausted. 

“Will you t — t — tell them to let me go?” 
cried Purvis. “ I’ve done nothing. I never do 
any thing. My name is Purvis, Sc — Sc — 
Scroope Purvis, bro — brother to Mrs. Ricketts, 
of the Villino Zoe.” 

“ Matters which have no possible interest for 
me, sir,” growled out Grounsell; “nor am I a 
corporal of ‘Gendarmes,’ to give orders for your 
liberation.” s 

“ But they’ll take me to — to prison !” cried 
Purvis. 

“ With all my heart, sir, so that I be not your 
fellow captive,” rejoined the doctor, angrily, and 
left the spot, while the police, taking as many 
precautions for securing Purvis as though he 
had been a murderer or a housebreaker, assisted 
him into a caleche, and, seated one on either 
side of him, with their carbines unslung, set out 
for Florence. • .V . ' < ». 

“They’ll take me for Fr — Fr — Fra Diavolo, 
if I enter the city in this fashion,” cried Purvis; 
but certainly his rueful expression might have 
belied the imputation. 

Grounsell sat down upon a grassy bench be- 
side the road, overcome with fatigue and disap- 
pointment. From the hour of his arrival in 
Florence he had not enjoyed one moment of 
rest. On leaving Lady Hester’s chamber he 
had betaken himself to Sir Stafford’s apartment, 
and there till nigh daybreak had he sat, break- 
ing the sad tidings of ruin to his old friend, and 
recounting the terrible story of disasters which 
were to crush him into poverty. Thence he 
hastened to George Onslow’s room ; but he was 
already gone. A few minutes before he had 
started with Norwood for Pratolino, and all that 


remained for Grounsell was, to inform the police 
of the intended meeting, while he himself, wisely 
suspecting that nothing could go forward in Flo- 
rence unknown to Jekyl, repaired to that gentle- 
man’s residence at once. 

Without the ceremony of announcement, 
Grounsell mounted the stairs, and opened the door 
of Jekyl’s apartement, just as its owner had com- 
menced the preparations for his breakfast. Thero 
was an almost Spartan simplicity in the arrange- 
ments, which might have made less composed 
spirits somewhat abashed and ill at ease. The 
little wooden platter of maccaroni, the small cof- 
fee-pot of discolored hue and dinged proportions, 
the bread of ^Ethiopian complexion, and the 
bunch of shriveled grapes, offered a meal irre- 
proachable on the score of either costliness or 
epicurism. But Jekyl, far from feeling discon- 
certed at their exposure to strangers’ eyes seem- 
ed to behold them with sincere satisfaction, and, 
with a most courteous smile, welcomed the doc- 
tor to Florence, and thanked him for the very 
polite attention of so early a visit. 

“ I believe I ought to apologize for the un- 
seasonable hour, sir,” blundered out Grounsell, 
who was completely thrown off his balance by 
this excessive urbanity ; “ but the cause must 
plead for me.” 

“ Any cause which has conferred the honor 
on me is sure of being satisfactory. Pray come 
nearer to the table. You’ll find that maccaroni 
eat better than it looks. The old Duke de Mont- 
martre always recommended maccaroni to bo 
served on wood. His maxim was, ‘Keep the 
‘ plat d’argent’ for a mayonnaise or a galan- 
tine.’ ” 

“ Excuse me if I can not join you, sir. No- 
thing but a matter of extreme importance could 
warrant my present intrusion. I only reached 
this city a few hours back, and I find every thing 
at the Mazzarini Palace in a state of discord and 
confusion. Some are questions for time and con- 
sideration ; others are more immediately press- 
ing. One of these is this affair of George On- 
slow’s. Who is he about to meet, and for what?” 

“His antagonist is a very agreeable young 
man — quite a gentleman, I assure you — attach- 
ed to the French mission here, and related to 
the ‘ Morignys,’ whom you must have met at 
‘ Madame Parivaux’s’ formerly.” 

“ Never heard of one of them, sir. But what’s 
the quarrel?” 

“ It originated, I believe, in some form of dis- 
putation — an altercation,” simpered Jekyl, as he 
sweetened and sipped his coffee. 

“ A play transaction — a gambling affair, eh ?” 

“I fancy not; Count Guilmard does not play.” 

“ So far, so good,” said Grounsell. “ Now, 
sir, how is it to be arranged ? — what settlement 
can be effected ? I speak to you frankly, per- 
haps bluntly, Mr. Jekyl, for my nature has few 
sympathies with courteous ambiguities. Can 
this business be accommodated without a meet- 
ing ?” 

Jekyl shook his head, and gave a soft, plain- 
tive little sigh 


187 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


u Is friendly interference out of the question, 
sir?” 

Another shake of the head, and a sigh. 

a Is there any law in the country ? Can 
the police do nothing ?” 

“ The frontiers are always easily accessible,” 
simpered Jekyl, as he stole a look at his watch. 

u Ay, to be sure,” broke in Grounsell, indig- 
nantly ; “ the very geography of the Continent 
assists this profligacy, and five paces over an 
imaginary boundary gives immunity in a case 
of murder ! Well, sir, come along with me to 
the place of meeting. It is just possible that 
we may be of some service even yet.” 

“ Nothing could be more agreeable to me 
than the opportunity of cultivating your ac- 
quaintance, Doctor Grounsell, but I have al- 
ready sent off a few lines to Lord Norwood, to 
apologize for my absence — -a previous engage- 
ment.” 

“ What ! at this hour of the morning, sir ?” 
burst out Grounsell. v. 

“ Even at this early hour, doctor, our cares 
commence,” said Jekyl, blandly. 

“ Upon this occasion they must give way to 
duties, then,” said Grounsell, sternly. “ The 
word may sound strangely in your ears, sir, but 
I use it advisedly. You have been well re- 
ceived and hospitably entertained by this family. 
They have shown you many marks of kindness 
and attention. Now is the opportunity to make 
some sort of requital. Come, then, and see if 
this young man can not be rescued from peril.” 

“You touch my feelings in the very tender- 
est spot,” said Jekyl, softly. “ When gratitude 
is mentioned, I am a child — a mere child.” 

“ Be a man, then, for once, sir ; put on your 
hat and accompany me,” cried Grounsell. 

“ Would you have me break an appointment, 
doctor?” 

“Ay, to be sure I would, sir — at least such 
an appointment as I suspect yours to be. This 
may be a case of life or death.” 

“ How very dreadful,” said Jekyl, settling 
his curls at the glass. Pascal compares men 
to thin glass vials, with an explosive powder 
within them, and really one sees the force of the 
similitude every day ; but Jean Paul improves 
upon it by saying, that we are all burning- 
glasses of various degrees of density, so that 
our passions ignite at different grades of heat.” 

“ Mine are not very far from the focal dis- 
tance at this moment,” said Grounsell, with 
savage energy ; “ so fetch your hat, sir, at 
once, or — ” 

“ Unless I prefer a cap, you were going to 
add,” interposed Jekyl, with a sweet smile. 

“ We must use speed, sir, or we shall be too 
late,” rejoined the doctor. 

“I flatter myself few men understand a 
rapid toilet better,” said Jekyl, rising from the 
table ; “ so if you’ll amuse yourself with Bell's 
Life, Punch, or Jules Janin, for five minutes, 
I’m your man.’’ 

“ I can be company for myself for that space, 
sir,” said the other, gruffly, and turned to the 


window, while Jekyl, disappearing behind the 
drapery that filled the doorway was heard 
humming an opera air from within. 

Grounsell was in no superlative mood of 
good temper w r ith the world, nor would he have 
extended to the section of it he best knew, the 
well-known eulogy on the “ Bayards.” “ Swind- 
lers,” “Rakes,” and “ Vagabonds,” were about 
the mildest terms of the vocabulary he kept 
muttering to himself, while a grumbling thun- 
der-growl of malediction followed each. The 
very aspect of the little chamber seemed to 
offer food for his anger : the pretentious style of 
its decoration jarred and irritated him, and he 
felt a wish to smash bronzes, and brackets, and 
statues into one common ruin. 

The very visiting-cards which lay scattered 
over a Serves dish, offended him ; the names of 
all that were most distinguished in rank and 
station, with here and there some little civility 
inscribed on the corner, “ Thanks,” “ Come, if 
possible,” or “ Of course we expect you,” 
showing the social request in which Jekyl 
stood. 

“ Ay,” muttered he to himself, “ here is one 
that can neither give dinners nor balls, get 
places, or pensions, or orders, lend money or lose 
it, and yet the world wants him, and can not get 
on without him. The indolence of profligacy 
seeks the aid of his stimulating activity, and the 
palled appetite of sensualism has to borrow the 
relish from vice that gives all its piquancy. — 
Without him as the fly-wheel, the whole ma- 
chinery of mischief would stand still. His 
boast is, that, without a sous, no millionaire is 
richer than he ; and that every boon of fortune 
is at his beck. We might add, that in his com- 
prehensive view of wickedness, he realizes 
within himself all the vice of this good capital. 
I’d send such a fellow to the tread-mill — I’d 
transport him for life — I’d sentence him to hunt 
kangaroos for the rest of his days — I’d — ” He 
stopped short in his violent tirade, for he sud- 
denly bethought him how he himself was at 
that very moment seeking aid and assistance at 
his hands, and somewhat abashed by the rec- 
ollection, he called out, “ Mr. Jekyl, are you 
ready yet ?” 

No answer was returned to this question, 
and Grounsell repeated it in a louder voice. — 
All was silent, and not even the dulcet sounds 
of the air from “Lucia” broke the stillness; 
and now, the doctor losing all patience drew 
aside the curtain and looked in. The chamber 
was empty, and Jekyl was gone ! His little 
portmanteau, and his still smaller carpet-bag, 
his hat-case, his canes — every article of his 
personnel , were away ; and while Grounsell 
stood cursing the “ little rascal,” he himself 
was pleasantly seated opposite Lady Hester and 
Kate in the traveling-carriage, and convulsing 
them with laughter at his admirable imitation 
of the poor doctor. 

Great as was Grounsell’s anger at this trick- 
ery, it was still greater when he discovered 
that he had been locked in. He quite forgot 


188 THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the course of time passed in his meditations, 
and could no* believe it possible that there was 
sufficient interval to have effected all these ar- 
rangements so speedily. 

Too indignant to brook delay, he dashed his 
foot through the door, and passed out. The 
noise at once summoned the people of the 
house to the spot, and, to Grounsell’s surprise, 
with a police-officer among them, who, in all 
the pomp of office, now barred the passage with 
a drawn sword. 

What is it — what’s this ?” cried he, in as- 
tonishment. 

“ Effraction by force in case of debt is pun- 
ishable by the 127th section of the 1 Code,’ ” 
said a dirty little man, who, with the air of a 
shoe-black, was still a leading member of the 
Florence “ Bar.” 

“I owe nothing here — not a farthing, sir; 
let me pass,” cried Grounsell. 

'• ‘Fathers for sons of nonage or over that 
period, domiciliated in the same house,’ ” began 
the advocate, reading out of a volume in 
his hand, “ are also responsible.” 

“ What balderdash, sir ; I have no son ; I 
never was married in my life ; and as for this 
Mr. Jekyl, if you mean to father him on me, 
I’ll resist to the last drop of my blood.” 

“ Denunciation and menace, “with show of 
arms, or without,” began the lawyer again, 
“are punishable by fine and imprisonment.” 

Grounsell was now so worked up by fury, 
that he attempted to force a passage by main 
strength ; but a general brandishing of knives 
by all the family, from seven years of age up- 
ward, warned him that the attempt might be 
too serious, while a wild chorus of abusive lan- 
guage arose from various -sympathizers, who 
poured in from the street to witness the scene. 

' 'C V V 1 ' • ’ ' V 


] A father who would not pay for his own 
son ! an “ assassin,” who had no bowels for his 
! kindred ; a “ Birbante,” a “ Briccone,” and a 
dozen similar epithets, rattled on him like hail, 
till Grounsell, supposing that the “ bite” might 
be in proportion to the “bark,” retreated into 
a small chamber, and proposed terms of accom- 
modation. Few men take pleasure in acquit- 
ting their own debts, few T er still like to pay 
those of their neighbors, and Grounsell set 
about the task in any thing but a pleasant man- 
ner. There was one redeeming feature, how- 
ever, in the affair. Jekyl’s schedule could not 
have extracted a rebuke from the severest Com- 
missioner of Bankruptcy. His household charges 
were framed on th emost moderate scale of ex- 
penditure. A few crowns for his house-rent, 
a few “ Pauls” for his eatables, and a few 
“ Grazie” for his washing, comprised the whole 
charge of his establishment, and not even Hume 
would have sought to cut down the “ esti- 
mates.” Doubtless, more than one-half of the 
demands were unjust and extortionate, and many 
were perhaps already acquitted ; but as all the 
rogueries were but homoeopathic iniquities, after 
all, their doses might be endured with patience. 
His haste to conclude the arrangements had, 
how T ever, a very opposite tendency. The more 
yielding he became, the greater grew their ex- 
actions, and several times the treaty threatened 
to open hostilities again ; and at last, it was full 
an hour after Jekyl’s departure that Grounsell 
escaped from durance, and was free to follow 
George Onslow to Pratolino. 

With his adventures in the interval, the read- 
er is Sufficiently acquainted; and we now come 
back to that moment, when, bewildered and 
lost, he sat down upon the bench beside the 
high road. 



CHAPTER XLI. 

“A SAD HOUSEHOLD.” 


It was already past noon when Grounsell 
reached Florence. He was delayed at the sate 
by the authorities examining a peasant’s cart 
in front of him — a process which appeared to 
take a most unusual degree of care and scrutiny 
— and thus gave the doctor another occasion for 
inveighing against the “stupid ignorance of 
foreigners, who throw every possible impediment 
in the way of traffic and intercourse.” 

“What have they discovered now?” cried 
he, testily, as in a crowd of vehicles, of all sorts 
and sizes, he was jammed up like a coal vessel 
in the river. “ Is the peasant a revolutionary 
general in disguise ? or has he got Bibles, or 
British cutlery under the straw of his baroecino?” 

“No, Eccelenza.” (Every one in a passion 
in Italy is styled Eccelenza^ as an “anodyne.”) 
“It’s a sick man, and they don't know what to 
do with him.” 

“ Is there a duty on ague or nervous fever?” 
asked he, angrily. 

“ They suspect lie’s dead, Eccelenza, and, if 
so, there’s no use in bringing him into the city, 
to bring him out again by-and-by.” 

“ And don’t they know if a man be dead or 
alive ?” 

“Not when lie’s a foreigner, Illustrissimo ; 
and such is the case here.” 

“ Ah ! very true,” said Grounsell, dryly, as 
if acquiescing in the truth of the remark. “ Let 
me have a look at him ; perhaps I can assist 
their judgment.” And with this he descended, 
and made his way through the crowd, who, in 
ail the eagerness of curiosity, thronged around 
the cart. A peasant’s great coat was drawn 
over the figure, and even the face of the sick 
man, as he lay at full length on the mat flooring 
of the baroecino ; and on his chest some pious 
hand had deposited a rosary and a wooden 
crucifix. 

Grounsell hastily drew back the covering, 
and then clutching an arm of those at either side 
of him, he uttered a faint cry, for the pale and 
deathlike features before him, were those of 
George Onslow. The instincts of the doctor, 
however, soon rose above every other feeling, 
and his hand seized the wrist and felt for the 
pulse. Its beatings were slow, labored, and 
irregular, denoting the brain as the seat of in- 
jury. Grounsell, therefore, proceeded to exam- 
ine the head, which, covered with clotted and 
matted blood, presented a terrific appearance ; 


yet neither there nor elsewhere was there any 
trace of injury by fire-arms. The history of 
discovery was soon told. A shepherd had de- 
tected the body as he passed the spot, and hail- 
ing some peasants on their way to Florence, 
advised their taking charge of it to the city, 
where they would be surely recompensed. The 
natural suggestion of Grounsell’s mind was, 
that, in making his escape from the Gendarmes, 
Onslow had fallen over a cliff. To convey him 
home, and get him to bed, if possible, before 
Sir Stafford should hear of the misfortune, was 
his first care ; and in this he succeeded. It was 
the time when Sir Stafford usually slept.; and 
Grounsell was able to examine his patient, and 
satisfy himself that, no fatal injury was done, 
long before the old baronet awoke. 

“Sir Stafford wishes to see you, sir; he has 
asked for you repeatedly to-day,” said Proctor. 

“ Has he heard — does he know any thing of 
this ?” said Grounsell, with a gesture to the bed 
where George lay. 

“ Not a word, sir. He was very cheerful all 
the morning, but wandering where vou could 
have gone, and what Mr. George was doing.” 

“ Now for it, then,” muttered Grounsell to 
himself, as, with clasped hands and knitted 
brows, he walked along ; his mind suffering 
the very same anxieties as had often times beset 
him on the eve of some painful operation in his 
art. 

“Well, Grounsell,” said the old man with a 
smile, as he entered, “ is it to give me a fore- 
taste of my altered condition that you all desert 
me to-day? You have never come near me, 
nor George either, so far as I can learn.” 

“ We’ve had a busy morning of it, Stafford,” 
said the doctor, sitting down on the bed, and 
laying his finger on the pulse. “You are bet- 
ter — much better to-day. Your hand is like 
itself, and your eye is free from fever.” 

“I feel it, Grounsell. I feel as if, with some 
twenty years less upon my back, I could like to 
begin my tussle with the world, and try issue 
with the best.” 

“ You’re young enough, and active enough 
yet, for what is before you, Stafford. Yesterday 
I told } r ou of every thing in colors perhaps 
gloomier than reality. The papers of to-day 
are somewhat more cheery in their tidings. 
The hurricane may pass over, and leave us still 
afloat ; but there is another trial for you, my old 


190 


THE DALTONS : OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


friend, and ) r ou must take heart to bear it well 
and manfully.” 

Sir Stafford sat up in his bed, and, grasping 
Grounsell by either shoulder, cried out, “ Go on 
— tell it quickly.” 

“Be calm, Stafford - r be yourself, my old 
friend,” said Grounsell, terrified at the degree 
of emotion he had called up. “ Your own cour- 
ageous spirit will not desert you now.'” 

“I know it,” said the old man, as, relaxing 
his grasp, he fell back upon the pillow, and then, 
turning on his face, he uttered a deep groan. 
“ I know your tidings, now,” cried he, in a burst 
of agony ! “ Oh, Grounsell, what is all other 

disgrace compared to this !” 

“I am speaking of George — of your son,” 
interposed Grounsell, hastily, and seizing with 
avidity the opportunity to reyeal all at once. 
“He left this for Prutolino this morning to fight 
a duel, but by some mischance has fallen over 
a cliff, and is severely injured.” 

“He’s dead — you would tell me he’s dead !” 
said the old man, in a faint, thrilling whisper. 

“Far from it. Alive, and like to live, but 
still sorely crushed and wounded.” 

“ Oh God !” cried the old man, in a burst of 
emotion, “ what worldliness is in my heart, 
when I am thankful for such tidings as this ! 
"When it is a relief to me to know that my child, 
my only son, lies maimed and broken on a sick 
bed, instead of — instead of — ” A gush of tears 
here broke in upon his utterance, and he wept 
bitterly. 

Grounsell knew too well the relief such par- 
oxysms afford to interfere with its course, while 
to avoid any recurrence even in thought to the 
cause, he hurriedly told all that he knew of 
George’s intended meeting with the Frenchman, 
and his own share in disturbing the rendezvous. 

Sir Stafford never spoke during this recital. 
The terrible shock seemed to have left its stun- 
ning influence on his faculties, and he appeared 
scarcely able to take in with clearness the de- 
tails into which the other entered. 

“ She’s gone to Como, then,” were the first 
words he uttered. “ To this villa the prince 
has lent her.” 

“Sol understand 5 and, from what Proctor says, 
the Russian is going to marry the Dalton girl.” 

“Miss Dalton is along with Lady Hester!’ 

“ To be sure ; they travel together, and 
George was to have followed them.” 

“ Even scandal, Grounsell, can make nothing 
of this. What say you, man?” 

“ You may defy it on that score, Stafford ; 
but let us talk of what is more imminent — of 
George.” 

“ I must see him, Grounsell ; I must see my 
poor boy,” said he, rising, and making an effort 
to get out of bed ; but weakness and mental ex- 
citement together overcame him, and he sank 
back again, fainting and exhausted. To this a 
deep, heavy sleep succeeded, and Grounsell 
stole away, relieved in mind, by having acquit- 
ted himself of his painful task, and free to ad- 
dross his thoughts to other cares. 


“ Lord Norwood wishes to see you, sir,” said 
a servant to the doqtor, as he at last seated him- 
self for a moment’s rest in his chamber ; and 
before Grounsell could reply the noble viscount 
entered. 

“Excuse this abrupt visit, sir; but I have 
1 just heard of poor Onslow’s accident. Is there 
any danger in his condition ?” 

“ Great and imminent danger, my lord.” 

“ By Jove ! — sorry for it. You don’t happen 
to know how it occurred.” 

“ A fall evidently was the cause, but how 
incurred I can not even guess.” 

“ In the event of his coming about again, when 
might we expect to see him all right ? — speak- 
ing loosely of course.” 

“ Should he recover, it will take a month, or 
perhaps two, before he convalesces.” 

“ The devil it will ! These Frenchmen can’t 
be made to understand the thing at all; and 
as Guilmard received a gross personal outrage, 
he is perfectly out of his mind at the delay 
in obtaining satisfaction. What is to be 
done ?” 

“ I am a poor adviser in such cases, my lord ; 
nor do I see that the matter demands any atten- 
tion from us whatever.” 

“ Not from you , perhaps,” said Norwood inso- 
lently ; “ but I had the misfortune to go out as 
his friend ! My position is a most painful and 
critical one.” 

“ I should suppose that no one will understand 
how to deal with such embarrassments better 
than your lordship.” 

“ Thanks for the good opinion ; the speech I 
take to be a compliment, however you meant it. 

I believe I am not altogether unskilled in such 
affairs, and it is precisely because such is the 
cause that I am here now. Onslow, in other 
hands than mine, is a ruined man. The story, 
tell it how you will, comes to this : that having 
gone out to meet a man he had grossly insulted; 
he wanders away from the rendezvous, and is 
found some hours after at the foot of a cliff, in- 
sensible. He may have fallen — he may have 
been waylaid — though every thing controverts 
this notion ; or lastly, he may have done the act 
himself. There will be advocates for each view 
of the case ; but it is essential, for his honor and 
reputation, that one story should be authenticated. 
Now, I am quite ready to stand godfather to such 
a version, taking all the consequences, however 
serious, on myself.” 

“ This is very kind — very generous indeed, 
my lord,” said Grounsell, suddenly warming into 
an admiration of one he was always prejudiced 
against. 

“ Oh, I’m a regular John Bull !” said the 
viscount, at once assuming the burden of that 
canticle, which helped him in all moments of 
hypocrisy. “ Always stand by the old stock — 
nothing like them, sir. The Anglo-Saxon blood 
will carry all before it yet ; never suffer a ras- 
cally foreigner to put his foot on one of your 
countrymen. Have him out, sir; parade the 
fellow at once : that’s my plan.” 


THE DALTONS; OR, T1 

“I like your spirit !” cried Grounsell, enthusi- 
astically. 

1° be sure you do. old cock.” exclaimed 
Norwood clapping him familiarly on the shoulder. 
u Repend upon it, I'll pull George through this. 

I U manage the matter cleverly. There must 
be no mistake about it — no room for doubt or 
equivocation, you know. All straightforward, 
open, and manly ; John Bull every inch of it. 
r l hat. s my notion, at least — I hope it’s yours?” 

“ Perfectly — thoroughly so !” 

“Well, then, just hand that note to Sir Staf- 
ford. — Here he placed a sealed letter in Groun- 
. sell s hand. — “ Tell him what I’ve just told you. 
Let him fairly understand the whole question, 
and let me have the contents this evening at the 
cafe in the Santa Trinita — say about nine 
o clock ; not later than that. These fellows 
always gather about that hour.” 

“Til take care of it,” said Grounsell. 

“All right!” cried Norwood, gayly, as he 
arose and adjusted the curls beneath his hat. 
“ My compliments to the old gent, and tell 
George not to make himself uneasy. He’s in 
safe hands. Good-by !” 

“ Good-by, my lord, good-by,” said Groun- 
sell, who, as he looked after him, felt, as it 
were unconsciously, recurring to all his former 
prejudices and dislikes of the noble viscount. 
“ Those fellows,” muttered he, “ are as inex- 
plicable to me as a new malady, of which I 
neither know the stages nor the symptoms ! 
The signs I take for those of health, may be pre- 
cisely the indications of corruption ; and what I 
deem Unsound, may turn out to be exactly the 
opposite.” And so he fell into a musing tit, in 
which certainly his estimate of Lord Norwood 
continued steadily to fall lower and lower the 
longer he thought of him. “ He must be a 
rogue ! — he must be a scoundrel ! Nature makes 
all its blackguards plausible, just as poison-ber- 
ries are always brilliant to took at. They are 
both intended to be the correctives of rash im- 
pressions, and I was only a fool ever to be de- 
ceived by him. Out of this, at all hazards — that’s 
the first thing !” muttered Grounsell to himself, 
ns he walked hastily up and down the room. 
“ The place is like a plague district, and we 
must not carry an infected rag aw r ay from it! 
Glorious Italy, forsooth ! There’s more true 
enlightenment — there’s a higher purpose, and a 
nolder view of life, in the humblest English vil- 
lage, than in the proudest halls of their Eternal 
City !” 

In such pleasant reflections on national char- 
acter he entered Sir Stafford’s room, and found 
his friend seated at a table covered with newly- 
arrived letters ; the seals were all unbroken, and 
the sick man was turning them over, and gazing 
at the different handwritings with a sad and 
listless apathy. 

“ I’m glad you’ve come, Grounsell. I have 
not courage for this,” said he, pointing to the 
mass of letters before him. 

“ Begging impostors, one h ilfof them, I’ll be 
worn !” said Grounsell, seating himself to the 


IREE ROADS IN LIFE. lfll 

work. “Was I not right? Here’s a Cabinet 
Minister suing for your vote on an Irish ques- 
tion, and entreating your speedy return to En- 
gland, ‘where, he trusts, the object you are both 
interested in may be satisfactorily arranged.’ 
Evasive rascal! Couldn’t he say, ‘You shall 
have the peerage for your support.’ Wouldn’t 
it be more frank, and more intelligible, to de- 
clare, ‘We take you at your price!’ These,” 
said he, throwing half a dozen contemptuously 
from him, “ are all from your constituents. The 
‘ independent borough’ contains seventy electors, 
and, if you owned the patronage of the two ser- 
vices, with a fair share of the public offices and 
India, you couldn’t content them. I’d tell them, 
fairly, ‘ I have bought you already ; the article 
is paid for and sent home. Let us hear no more 
about it !’ This is more cheering. Shoenhals 
of Riga stands firm, and the Rotterdam house 
will weather the gale. That’s good news, On- 
slow ?” said he, grasping the old man’s hand. 
“ This is from Calcutta. Prospects are bright- 
ening a little in that quarter, too. Come, come 
— there’s some blue in the sky. Who knows 
what good weather’s in store for us?” 

Onslow’s lip trembled, and he passed his hand 
over his eyes without speaking. 

“This is from Como,” said Grounsell, half 
angrily, tossing away a highly-perfumed little 
three-cornered note. 

“ Give it to me — let me see it,” said Onslow, 
eagerly, while, with trembling fingers, he ad- 
justed his spectacles to read. Grounsell handed 
him the epistle, and walked to the window. 

“ She’s quite well,” read Sir Stafford, aloud ; 
“they had delightful weather on the road, and 
found Como in full beauty on their arrival.” 
Grounsell grumbled some angry mutterings be- 
tween his teeth, and shrugged up his shoulders 
disdainfully. “ She inquires most kindly after 
me, and wishes me to join them, there, for Kate 
Dalton’s betrothal.” 

“Yet she never took the trouble to visit you 
when living under the same roof!” cried Groun- 
sell, indignantly. 

The old man laid down the letter, and seemed 
to ponder for some moments. 

“What’s the amount? — how much is the 
sum?” asked Grounsell, bluntly. 

“The amount! — the sum! — of what?” in- 
quired Sir Stafford. 

“ I ask, what demand is she making, that it 
is prefaced thus?” 

“ By Heaven ! if you were not a friend of 
more than fifty years’ standing, you should 
never address me as such again,” cried Onslow, 
passionately. “ Has ill-nature so absorbed your 
faculties that you have not a good thought or 
good feeling left you ?” 

“ My stock of them decreases every day — ay, 
every hour, Onslow,” said he, with a deeper 
emotion than he had yet displayed. “It is, 
indeed, a sorry compromise, that if age is to 
make us wiser, it should make us less amiable 
also !” 

“ You are not angry with me ? — not offended, 


192 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Grounsell ?” said Onslow, grasping his hand in 
both his own. 

“ Not a bit of it. But, as to temperament I 
can no more help my distrust, than you can con- 
quer your credulity, which is a happier philos- 
ophy, after all.” 

“Then come, read that letter, Grounsell,” 
said Onslow, smiling pleasantly ; “ put your 
prejudices aside for once, and be just, if not 
generous.” ^ 

Grounsell took the note, and walked to the 
window to read it. The note was just what he 
expected — a prettily-turned inquiry after her 
husband’s health, interwoven with various little 
pleasantries of traveling, incidents of the road, 
and so forth. The invitation was a mere sug- 
gestion, and Grounsell was half angry at how 
little there was to find fault with ; for, even to 
the “Very sincerely yours, Hester Onslow,” all 
was as commonplace as need be. Accidentally 
turning over the page, however, he found a small 
slip of silver paper — a bank check for five hun- 
dred pounds, only wanting Onslow’s signature. 
Grounsell crushed it convulsively in his palm, 
and handed the note back to Onslow, without a 
word. 

“ Well, are you convinced ? — are you satisfied 
now?” asked Onslow, triumphantly. 

“I am perfectly so !” said Grounsell, with a 
deep sigh. “ You must write, and tell her that 
business requires your immediate presence in 
England and that George’s condition will neces- 
sitate a return by sea. Caution her that the 
Daltons should be consulted about this marriage 
— which, so far as I know, they have not been; 
and I would advise, also, seeing that there may 
be some interval before you can write again, 
that you should send her a check — say for five 
hundred pounds.” 

“ So you can be equitable, Grounsell,” cried 
the other, joyously. 

“ And here is a letter from Lord Norwood,” 
said Grounsell, not heeding the remark, and 
breaking the seal as he spoke. “ Laconic, cer- 
tainly. ‘ Let me have the inclosed by this even- 
ing. — N.’ The inclosed are five acceptances 


for two hundred each; the ‘value received’ be- 
ing his lordship’s services in upholding your 
son’s honor. Now, here, at least, Onslow, I’ll 
have my own way.” And, with these words, 
he seated himself at a table, and wrote : 

“ My Lord — Living in a land where assas- 
sination is cheap, and even men of small fortune 
can keep a Bravo, I beg to return your lord- 
ship’s bills, without submitting them to my 
friend for indorsement, your price being con- 
siderably above the tariff of the country, and 
more calculated to your own exigencies than 
the occasion which it was meant to remuner- 
ate. — I am, yours, 

“Paul Grounsell.” 

“ What have you said there, Grounsell ? You 
look so self-satisfied, it can scarcely be over 
civil.” 

“ There — ‘ To the Viscount Norwood,’ ” said 
Grounsell, as he sealed and addressed the note. 
“We are getting through our work rapidly. In 
a week, or eveU less, if George’s symptoms show 
nothing worse, we shall get avray from this ; 
and even on the sea one feels half as though it 
were England.” 

We need not follow Grounsell through the 
busy days which ensued, nor track him in his 
various negotiations with tradespeople, bankers, 
house-agents, and that legionary class which are 
called “Commissionaires;” enough if we say, 
that, in arranging for the departure of his friends, 
his impressions of Italian roguery received many 
an additional confirmation ; and that, -when the 
last day of their sojourn arrived, his firm con- 
viction was that none but a millionaire could 
afford to live in this the very cheapest capital 
of Europe ! 

And now they are gone ! steaming calmly 
away across the Gulf of Genoa. They have 
closed the little episode of their life in Italy, 
and, with heavy hearts, are turning homeward. 
The great Mazzarini Palace looks sad and for- 
lorn, nor do we mean to linger much longer on 
a scene whence the actors have departed. 


< 


CHAPTER XLII. 


A LAST 

^ •' < -j 

- - ‘ *’ *r < " » r \ ‘ -, v . 

One last glance at the Mazzarini Palace, and 
we leave it forever. * 

Seated in the drawing-room, where Lady 
Hester once held sway, in the very chair around 
which swarmed her devoted courtiers and ad- 
mirers, Mrs. Ricketts now reclined, pretty much 
on the same terms, and with probably some of 
the same sentiments, as Louis Blanc, or his 
friend Albert, might have experienced on finding 
themselves domesticated within the Palace of 
the Luxembourg. They were, so to say, par- 
allel circumstances. There had been a great 
reverse of fortune, an abdication, and a flight. 
The sycophants of the day before were the mas- 
ters now, and none disputed the pretensions of 
any bold enough to assume dictation. To be 
sure, Mrs. Ricketts’s rule, like Ledru Rollin’s 
was but a Provisional Government ; for already 
the bills for an approaching sale of every thing 
were posted over the front of the Palace, and 
Racca Morlache’s people were cataloguing 
every article with a searching accuracy, very 
tormenting to the beholders. 

From some confused impression that they 
were friends of Lady Hester, and that Mrs. 
Ricketts’s health was in a precarious condition, 
Sir Stafford gave orders that they should not be 
molested in any way, but permitted to prolong 
their stay to the latest period compatible with 
the arrangement for sale. A sense of gratitude, 
too, mingled with these feelings; for Mrs. Rick- 
etts had never ceased to indite euphuistic notes 
of inquiry after George himself — send presents 
of impracticable compounds in paste and pre- 
serves, together with bottles of mixtures, lotions, 
embrocations, and liniments — one tithe of which 
would have invalided a regiment. Grounsell, it 
is true, received these civilities in a most un- 
worthy spirit ; called her “ an old humbug,” with 
a very unpolite expletive annexed to it ; and all 
but hurled the pharmacopoeia at the head of the 
messenger. Still, he had other cares too press- 
ing to suffer his mind to dwell on such trifles ; 
and when Onslow expressed a wish that the 
family should not be disturbed in their occupancy, 
lie merely muttered, “ Let them stay and be 
d — d;” and thought no more of them. 

Now, although the palace was, so to speak, 
dismantled, the servants discharged, the horses 
sent to livery for sale, the mere residence was 
convenient lor Mrs. Ricketts. It afforded a 
favorable opportunity for a general '‘doing up” 


SCENE. 

of the Yillino Zoe — a moment for which all her 
late ingenuity had not been able to provide. It 
opened a convenient occasion, too, for supplying 
her own garden with a very choice collection of 
flowers from the Mazzarini — fuschias, geran.- 
iums, and orchid® being far beyond all the in- 
ventorial science of Morlache’s men ; and lastly, 
it conferred the pleasing honor of dating all her 
dispatches to her hundred correspondents from the 
Palazzo Mazzarini, where, to oblige her dear 
Lady Hester, she was still lingering — “ Se sacri - 
ficancLo ,” as she delighted to express it, “at doveri 
delV amicizia .” To these cares she had now vowed 
herself a martyr. The general believed in her 
sorrows ; Martha would have sworn to them 
and not a whit the less sincerely, that she spent 
hours in secreting tulip roots and hyacinths, 
while a deeper scheme was in perpetration — no 
less than to substitute a copy of a Gerard Dow 
for the original, and thus transmit the genius of 
the Ricketts family to a late posterity. Poor 
Martha would have assisted in a murder at her 
bidding, and not had a suspicion of its being a 
crime ! 

It was an evening “ at. home to her few most 
intimate friends,” when Mrs. Ricketts, using the 
privilege of an invalid, descended to the draw- 
ing-room in a costume which united an ingenious 
compromise between the habit of waking and 
sleeping. A short tunic, a kind of female mon- 
key-jacket, of faded yellow satin edged with, 
swansdown, and a cap of the same material,, 
whose shape was borrowed from that worn by 
the Beefeaters, formed the upper portion of a 
dress, to which wide fur boots, with gold tasr 
sels, and a great hanging pocket, like a sabre^ 
tasche, gave a false air of a military costume. 
“It was singular,” she would remark, with a 
bland smile, “ but very becoming !” Besides, 
it suited every clime. She used to come down 
to breakfast in it at Windsor Castle ; “ the 
Queen liked it ;” the Bey of Tripoli loved it ; 
and the Hospodar of Wallachia had one made 
for himself exactly from the pattern. Her 
guests were of the same party we have already 
introduced to our reader in the Yillino Zoe — - 
Haggerstone, the Pole, and Foglass being the 
privileged few admitted into her august pres- 
ence, and who came to make up her whist- 
table, and offer their respectful homage on her 
convalescence. 

The Carnival was just over, the dull season 


194 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


of Lent had begun, and the Ricketts’ tea-table 
was a resource when nothing else offered. Such 
was the argument of Haggerstone as he took a 
cheap dinner with Foglass at the Luna. 

44 She’s an infernal bore, sir — that I know 
fully as well as you can inform me — but please 
to tell me who isn’t a bore ?” Then he added, 
in a lower voice, 44 Certainly it ain’t you I" 1 ' 

“ Yes, yes — I agree with you,” said Foglass ; 
“ she has reason to be sore about the Onslows’ 
treatment.” 

44 1 said a bore, sir — not sore,” screamed out 
Haggerstone. 

44 Ha !” replied the other, not understanding 
the correction. 44 1 remember one day, when 
Townsend — ” 

4 D — n Townsend !” said Haggerstone. 

£4 No, not Dan — Tom Townsend. That fel- 
low who was always with Mathews.” 

44 Walk a little quicker, and you may talk as 
much balderdash as you please,” said the other, 
buttoning up his coat, and resolving not to pay 
the slightest attention to his companion’s agree- 
ability. > > 

44 Who is here ?” asked Haggerstone, as he 
followed the servant up the stairs. 

“Nobody but Count Petrolaffsky, sir.” 

“Un comte a bon compte,” muttered Hag- 
gerstone to himself, always pleased when he 
could be sarcastic, even in soliloquy. 44 They’ll 
find it no easy matter to get a tenant for this 
house nowadays. Florence is going down, sir, 
and will soon be little better than Boulogne-sur- 
Mer.” 

44 Very pleasant, indeed, for a month in sum- 
mer,” responded Foglass, who had only caught 
up the last word. “Do you think of going 
there ?” 

44 Going there !” shouted out the other, in a 
voice that made misconception impossible. 
Xl About as soon as I should take lodffings in 
Wapping for country air !” 

This speech brought them to the door of the 
drawing-room, into which Haggerstone now 
entered, with that peculiar step which struck 
him as combining the jaunty slide of a man of 
fashion with the martial tread of an old soldier. 

44 Ha ! my old adherents — all my faithful 
ones!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, giving a hand to 
each to kiss ; and then, in a voice of deep emo- 
tion, she said, 44 Bless you both ! May peace 
and happiness be beneath your roof-trees ! Joy 
sit beside your hearth !” 

Haggerstone reddened a little ; for however 
alive to the ludicrous in his neighbors, he was 
marvelously sensitive as to having a part in the 
piece himself. 

44 You are looking quite yourself again,” said 
he, bluntly. \ 

44 The soul, indeed, is unchanged ; the 
spirit — ” 

44 What’s become of Purvis ?” broke in Hag- 
gerstone, who never gave any quarter to these 
poetic flights. 

44 You’ll see him presently. He has been so 
much fatigued and exhausted by this horrid. 


1 police investigation, that he never gets up till 
late. I’ve put him on a course of dandelion, 
and aconite, too; the first effect of which is 
always unpleasant.” 

Leaving Foglass in conclave with the hostess, 
Haggerstone now approached the count, who 
had four several times performed his toilet oper- 
ation of running his hands through his hair, in 
expectation of being addressed. 

“How d’ye do — any piquet lately?” asked 
the colonel, half cavalierly. 

44 As if I was tinking of piquet, wid my coun- 
try in shains ! How you can aske me dat?” 

44 What did you do with Norwood t’other 
night?” resumed the other, in a voice somewhat 
lower. 

44 Won four hundred and fifty — but he no 
pay !” 

“Nor ever will.” 

44 What you say ? — not pay me what I wins !” 

44 Not a sous of it.” 

“ And dis you call English noblemans — Pair 
d’Angleterre !” 

44 Hush ! Don’t be carried away by your 
feelings. Some men Norwood won’t pay, be- 
cause he doesn’t know them. There are others 
he treats the same way, because he does know 
them — very equitable, eh?” 

The observation seemed more intelligible to 
the Pole than polite, for he bit his lip and was 
silent, while Haggerstone went on : 

44 He’s gone, and that, at least, is a point 
gained ; and now that these Onslows have left 
this, and that cur Jekyl, we may expect a little 
quietness for awhile at least ; but here comes 
Purvis.” And that worthy individual was led 
in on Martha’s arm, a large green shade over 
his eyes, and his face plentifully sprinkled with 
flour. 

44 What’s the matter with you, man ? You’re 
4 got up’ like a ghost in a melodrama.” 

44 They’ve taken all the cuti — cuti — cuti — ” 

“ Call it skin, sir, and go on.” 

44 Sk — skin off my face with a lin — liniment,” 
cried he, 44 and I could sc — scream out with pain 
whenever. I speak !” 

44 Balm of marigolds, with the essential oil of 
crab-apple,” said Martha. “I made it myself.” 

“I wish to Hea — Heaven you had tr — tried 
it too,” whispered he. 

44 Brother Scroope, you are ungrateful,” said 
Mrs. Ricketts,' with the air of a judge, charging. 
44 The vicissitudes of temperature, here, require 
the use of astringents. The excessive heat of 
that police-court — ” , 

44 By the way, how has that affair ended ?” 
asked Haggerstone. 

44 I’ll tell you,” screamed out Purvis, in a 
burst of eagerness. 44 They’ve fi — fi — fined me 
a hundred and f — f — fifty scudi for being w — 
where I never was, and fighting somebody I 
n — never saw.” 

44 You got off cheaply, sir. I’ve known a man 
sentenced to the galleys for less ; and with a 
better character to boot,” muttered he to him- 
self. 


195 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


11 Lord Norwood and the rest said that I was 
a pr — pr — principal, and he swore that he found 
me hiding in a cave.” 

u And did he so ?” 

“Yes; but it was only out of cun — cun — 
curi — ” 

“ Cariosity, sir, like other luxuries, must be 
paid for ; and, as you seem a glutton, your ap- 
petite may be expensive to you.” 

“ The mystery remains unsolved as to young 
Onslow, colonel?” said Mrs. Ricketts, half in 
question. 

“I believe not, madam. The explanation is 
very simple. The gallant Guardsman, having 
heard of Guilmard’s skill, preferred being re- 
ported ‘missing’ to ‘killed,’ having previously 
arranged with Norwood to take his place. The 
price was, I fancy, a smart one — some say 
five thousand, some call it ten. Whatever the 
amount, it has not been paid, and Norwood is 
furious.” 

“ But the accident?” 

“ As for that, madam, nothing more natural 
than to crack your skull when you lose your 
head.” And Haggerstone drew himself up with 
the proud consciousness of his own smartness. 

“ Then, of course, the poor young man is 
ruined?” observed Martha. 

“I should say so, madam — utterly ruined. 
He may figure on the committee of a Polish 
ball, but any other society would of course re- 
ject him.” This was said to obtain a sneer at 
Petrolaffsky, without his being able to guess 
why. “ I believe I may say, without much 
fear of contradiction, that these Onslows were 
all humbugs ! The old banker’s wealth, my 
lady’s refinement, the Guardsman’s spirit, were 
all in the same category — downright humbugs!” 

“ How he hates us — how he detests the aris- 
tocracy,” said Mrs. Ricketts, in a whisper to 
the Pole. 

“And de Dalton — what of her? is she mill- 
ionaire ?” asked Petrolaffsky. 

“The father a small shopkeeper in Baden, 
sir; children’s toys, nut-crackers, and paper- 
knives being the staple of his riches. Foglass 
can tell you all about it. He wants to hear 
about those Daltons,” screamed he into the deaf 
man’s ear. 

“Poor as Job — hasn’t sixpence — lives ‘three- 
pair back,’ and dines for a ‘ zwanziger.’ Lame 
daughter makes something by cutting heads for 
canes and umbrellas. He picks up a trifle about 
the hotels.” 

“ Ach Gott ! and I was so near be in loaf wid 
de sister J” muttered the Pole. 

“ She is likely to d — d — do better, count,” 
cackled in Purvis. “ She’s caught her Tartar 
— ha, ha, ha!” 

“ Midchikoff doesn’t mean marriage, sir, de- 
pend upon it,” said Haggerstone. 

“Martha, leave the room, my dear,” said 
Mrs. Ricketts, bridling. 

“ He could no more relish a pleasure with- 
out a vice, than he could dine without caviare.” 

“ But they are be — be — betrothed,” cried 


Purvis. “ I saw a letter with an account of the 
ceremony. Mid — chikoff fitted up a beautiful 
chapel at his villa, and there was a Greek 
priest came sp — special from M — M — M — 
Moscow — ” 

“ I thought you were going to say from the 
moon, sir ; and it would be almost as plausible,” 
croaked Haggerstone. 

“ I saw the letter. It wasn’t shown to me, 
but I saw it; and it was that woman from 
Breslau gave her away.” 

“What! old Madame Heidendorf? She has 
assisted at a great many similar ceremonies be- 
fore, sir.” 

“ It was the emperor sent her on purpose,” 
cried Purvis, very angry at the disparagement 
of his history. 

“ In this unbelieving age, sir, I must say that 
your fresh innocence is charming ; but permit 
me to tell you that I know old Caroline Meers- 
burg — she was sister of the fellow that stole the 
Archduke Michel’s dress-sword, at the court- 
ball given for his birthday. I have known her 
five-and-thirty years. You must have met her, 
madam, at Lubetskoy’s, when he was minister 
at Naples, the year after the battle of Marengo.” 

“ I was wearing trowsers with frills to them, 
and hunting butterflies at that time,” said Mrs. 
Ricketts, with a great effort at a smile. 

“ I haven’t a doubt of it, madam.” And then 
muttered to himself, “ And if childishness mean 
youth, she will enjoy a perpetual spring !” 

“ The ceremony,” resumed Purvis, very eager 
to relate his story, “ was dr — droll enough ; they 
cut off a — a — a — lock of her hair, and tied it up 
with one of his.” 

“ A good wig spoiled !” croaked Hagger- 
stone. i 

“ They then brought a b — b — b — ” 

“ A baby, sir.” 

“No, not a b — baby, a b — basin — a silver- 
basin — and they poured water over both their 
hands.” 

“ A ceremony by no means in accordance 
with Russian prejudices,” chimed in Hagger- 
stone. “ They know far more of train oil and 
bears’ fat than of brown Windsor !” 

“ Not the higher nobility, colonel — not the 
people of rank,” objected Mrs. Ricketts. 

“ There are none such, madam. I have lived 
in intimacy with them all, from Alexander down- 
ward. You may dress them how you please, 
but the Cossack is in the blood. Raw beef and 
red breeches are more than instincts with them ; 
and, except the Poles, they are the dirtiest na- 
tion of Europe.” 

“What you say of Polen?” asked Petro- 
laffsky. 

“ That if oil could smooth down the acrimony 
of politics, you ought to be a happy people yet, 
sir.” 

“ And we are a great people dis minet. 
Haven’t we Urednfrskioctsch, de best general 
in de world; and Krakouventkay, de greatest 
ooet ; and Vladoritski, de most distinguish 
pianist ?” 


196 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ Keep them, sir, with all their consonants ; 
and Heaven give you luck with them,” said 
Haggerstone, turning away. 

“On Tuesday; no, We — Wednesday next 
they are to set out for St. P — P — Petersburg. 
And when the Emperor’s leave is gr — granted, 
then Midchikoff is to follow ; but not before.” 

“ An de tyrant no grant de leave,” said the 
Pole, gnashing his teeth and grasping an imag- 
inary dagger in his wrath. “ More like he send 
her to work in shains, wid my beautiful sister 
and my faders.” 

“ He’ll have more important matters to think 
of soon, sir,” said Haggerstone, authoritatively. 
“Europe is on the eve of a great convulsion. 
Some kings and kaisers will accept the Chiltern 
Hundreds before the year’s out.” 

“ Shall we be safe, colonel, here ? Ought 
Martha and I — ” 

“ Have no fears, madam ; age commands re- 
spect, even from Huns and Croats. And were 
it otherwise, madam, where would you fly to? 
France will have her own troubles, England has 
the income-tax, and Germany will rake up some 
bid grievance of the Hohenstaufen, or the Em- 
peror Conrad, and make it a charge against 
Prince Metternich and the Diet ! It’s a very 
rascally world altogether, and out of Tatter- 
sail’s yard. I never expect to hear of honesty or 
good principles ; and a propos to nothing, let us 
have some piquet, count.” 

The table was soon got ready, and the players 
had just seated themselves, when the sound of 
carriage-wheels in the court attracted their at- 
tention. 

“ What can it mean, Scroope ? Are you 
quite certain that you said I wouldn’t receive 
to-night?” 

“Yes; I told them what you b — bade me; 
that if the archduke called — ” 

“ There, you needn’t repeat it,” broke in 
Mrs. Ricketts, for certain indications around 
Haggerstone’s mouth showed the sense of ridi- 
cule that was working within him. 

“I suppose, madam, you feel somewhat like 
poor Pauline, when she said she was so beset 
with kings and kaisers she had never a moment 
left for good society?” 

“ You must say positively, Scroope, that I 
admit no one this evening.” 

“ The Signor Morlache wishes to see you, 
madam,” said a servant. And close behind him, 
as he spoke, followed that bland personage, bow- 
ing gracefully to each as he entered. 

“Sorry — most sorry — madam, to intrude upon 
your presence; but the Prince Midchikoff desires 
to have a glance at the pictures and decorations 
before he goes away from Florence.” 

“ Will you mention to him that to-morrow, 
in the afternoon, about five or — ” 

“ He leaves this to-morrow morning, madam ; 
and if you could — ” 

But before the Jew could finish his request 
the door was flung wide, and the great Midchi- 
Voff entered, with his hands in his coat-pockets, 
^id his glass in one eye. He sauntered into the 


! room with a most profound unconsciousness that 
there were people in it. Not a glance did he 
even bestow upon the living figures of the scene, 
nor did a trait of his manner evince any knowl- 
edge of their presence. Ranging his eyes over 
the walls and the ceilings, he neither noticed the 
martial attitude of Haggerstone, or the graceful 
undulations by which Mrs. Ricketts was, as it 
were, rehearsing a courtesy before him. 

“Originals, but all poor things, Morlache,” 
said the prince. And, really, the observation 
seemed as though uttered of the company rather 
than the pictures. 

“ Mrs. Ricketts has been good enough, your 
highness — ” began the Jew. 

“ Give her a Napoleon,” said he, listlessly ; 
and turned away. 

“ My sister, Mrs. Ricketts — Mrs. M — M — 
Montague Ricketts,” began Scroope, whose ha- 
bitual timidity gave way under the extremity of 
provocation. And the prince turned slowly 
round, and surveyed the speaker and the impos- 
ing form that loomed behind him. 

“Tell them that I don’t mean to keep any 
establishment here, Morlache.” And with 
this he strolled on, and passed into another 
room, while, like as in a tableau, the others 
stood speechless with rage and indignation. 

“He took you for the housekeeper, ma’am,” 
said Haggerstone, standing up with his back to 
the fire — “ and a housekeeper out of place !” 

“Martha, where’s the general? Where is 
he, I say?” cried Mrs. Rickets, furipus with 
passion. 

“ He went to bed at nine,” whispered Martha. 
“ He thought by rising early to-morrow, to 
finish the attack on Utrecht before night.” 

“ You are as great a fool as himself. Scroope, 
come here. You must follow that Russian. You 
must tell him the gross rudeness — ” 

“ I be ha — ha — hanged if I do. I’ve had 
enough of rows for one winter, at least. I’ll 
not get into another sc — scrape, if I can help 
it.” 

“ I’m sorry, madam, that I can not offer you 
my services,” said Haggerstone; “but I never 
meddle in a quarrel which can be made a sub- 
ject of ridicule. Mr. Foglass, I’m certain, has 
no such scruple.” ^ 

“ The prince appears a very agreeable man,” 
said the ex-consul, who, not having the slightest 
notion of what was passing, merely followed his 
instincts of praising the person of high rank. 

“ De shains of my enslaved country is on my 
hands. I’m tied like one gallerien !” said Petro- 
laffsky, in a voice guttural with emotion. 

“ Your pardon once more, madam,” said 
Morlache, slipping into the chamber, and noise- 
lessly approaching Mrs. Ricketts’ chair. “ The 
prince will take every thing — pictures, plate, 
china, and books. I hope to-morrow, at noon, 
will not inconvenience you to leave this — ” 

“To-morrow! Impossible, sir. Perfectly 
impossible.” 

“In that case, madam, we must make some 
arrangement as to rent. His highness leaves all 




THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 197 


to me, and I will endeavor to meet your wishes 
in every respect. Shall we say two thousand 
francs a month for the present ?” Without 
waiting for any reply, he turned to the Pole, 
and whispered, “ He’ll take you back again. 
He wants a Chasseur, to send to St. Petersburg. 
Come over to me in the morning, about ten. 
Mr. Foglass,” cried he, in a loud voice, “when 
you write to London, will you mention that the 
varnish on the prince’s drosky doesn’t stand the 
cold of Russia, and that they must try some 
other plan with the barouche. Your brother is 
an ingenious fellow, and he’ll hit upon some- 
thing. Colonel Haggerstone, the prince didn’t 
return your call. He says you will guess the 
reason when he says that he was in Palermo in 
a certain year you know of. I wish the honor- 
able company good night,” said he, bowing with 



a deference almost submissive, and backing out 
of the room as he spoke. 

And with him we also take our leave of them. 
They were like the chance passengers we meet 
on the road of a journey, with whom we con- 
verse when near, and forget when we separate 
from. Were we not more interested for the 
actors than the scenes on which they ‘ strut 
their hour,” we might yet linger a few moments 
on the spot so bound up with our memory of 
Kate Dalton — the terrace where she sat, the 
little orangery where she loitered of a morning, 
the window where she read, and dreamed of that 
bright future, so much nearer to her grasp than 
she knew of! There they were all! — destined 
to feel new influences and know other footsteps, 
for she had left them forever, and gone forth upon 
her “Path” in life. 


\ 





n . . . • • v* . 












) 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


A PACKAGE 


It was a bright clear morning in May. A 
somewhat late spring had retarded vegetation, 
and the blossoming fruit-trees now added their 
gorgeous beauty to the warmer tints of coming 
summer. We are once more in Baden 5 but 
how different is it from what we saw it last. 
The frozen fountains now splash, and hiss, and 
sparkle in the sun. The trim alleys are flanked 
by the yellow crocus and the daffodil ; the spray- 
like foliage of the ash is flecking the sunlight on 
the merry river, along whose banks the cheering 
sound of pleasant voices mingles with the carol 
of a thousand birds. The windows are open, 
and gay balconies are spreading, and orange- 
trees unfolding their sweetness to the breezy 
air. All is life, and motion, and joy, for the 
winter is passed, and nothing remains of it save 
the snow-peaks on some distant mountains, and 
even they are glowing in brilliant contrast with 
the deep blue sky beyond them. 

Lovely as the valley is in summer or autumn, 
it is only in spring its perfect beauty appears. 
The sudden burst of vegetation — the rapid tran- 
sition from the frost-bound durance of winter to 
the life and lightness of the young season, have 
a most exciting and exhilarating effect. This 
seemed conspicuous enough in the inhabitants 
as they chatted merrily in the streets, or met 
each other with pleasant greetings. It was the 
hour of the post arriving, and around the little 
window of the office were gathered the chief 
celebrities of the village — the principal hotel- 
keepers, curious to learn what tidings their cor- 
respondents gave of the prospects for the coming 
summer. Every thing appeared to smile on 
that happy moment, for as the various letters 
were opened, each had some good news to tell 
his neighbors — now, of some great English lord ; 
now, of some Hungarian magnate, or Russian 
prince, that was to make Baden his residence 
for the summer. “ The Cour de Bade is all 
taken,” said one; “There will not be a room 
free in all the Adler “ The Swan must refuse 
the Queen of Naples,” — such were the rumors 
that fell from lip .to lip as in hearty congratula- 
tion they talked over their good fortune. 

One figure only of the assembled group seem- 
ed excepted from the general joy. He was a 
large elderly man, who in a patched and thread- 
bare surtout, with a coarse scarlet muffler round 
his throat, appeared either distrustful of the mild 
season, or unprovided with any change of cos- 
tume to enjoy it. Seated on a stone bench in 
front of the window of the post-office, with an 
arm on each knee, and his head bent heavily 
’Dr ward, he never seemed to notice what went 


OF LETTERS. 

V / v \ I ; WT 

forward, nor hear one syllable of the joyous 
recognitions about him. 

The crowd at last dispersed ; the happy re- 
cipients of good news were turning homeward, 
and only one or two still lingered around the 
spot, when the old man arose and approached 
the window. There was something almost of 
shame in the way he slouched his hat over his 
eyes as he drew nigh and knocked timidly at the 
closed pane. 

His summons was unheard, and yet for some 
time he did not repeat it — perhaps he loved 
better to feed his hope even these short few 
moments, than again fall back into the dark 
gloom of his despair ! At last, and with a deep 
hollow sigh, he tapped again. 

“ Have you any thing for the name of Dalton 
— Peter Dalton?” asked he, in a voice wherein 
scarcely an accent revealed the once high-heart- 
ed nature. v . 

“ Nothing,” was the curt rejoinder ; and the 
window was slammed-to with impatience. 

He grasped the iron railing with a convulsive 
grip, as though a sudden pang had shot through 
him, and then, by a great effort, he drew him- 
self up to his full height ; his pale and haggard 
face grew paler as he turned it upwards, and 
his bloodless lips trembled as they muttered 
some indistinct syllables ; then turning about, he 
brushed abruptly past the few who stood around, 
and walked away. 

He had not gone many paces, when a boy 
overtook him, saying, “ Come back, sir ; the 
postmaster has two letters for you.” 

Dalton looked stealthily at either side, to be 
sure that the speech was addressed to him, and 
with a fierceness that startled the boy, said, 
“ You’re certain they’re for me?” 

“Yes, yes; all right — here they are,” cried 
the postmaster from the window. “ One, a 
soldier’s letter from Munich, and free. The 
other is a heavier packet, and costs four florins 
and twelve kreutzers.” 

“ I must be satisfied with this one, then,” said 
Dalton, “ till I go back for money. I brought 
no change out with me.” 

“ No matter ; you can send it,” said the other. 

“ Maybe it’s not so easy as you think,” mut- 
tered Dalton to himself; while he added, aloud, 
“ Very well, I’ll do so, and thank you.” And 
he clutched the two letters, and pressed them to 
his bosom. 

With hurried steps he now paced homeward, 
but, stopping at every instant, he drew forth the 
packets, to gaze on them, and be certain that 
no self-decaption was over him, and that his 


195 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


possession was real and tangible. His gait grew 
more firm as he went, and his tread, as he 
mounted the stair, sounded assured and steady. 

“ You have a letter, father, dearest,” cried 
Nelly, as she flung wide the door. “ I saw 
you crossing the Platz, and I know, from your 
walk, that you’ve got one.” 

“ No, but better, Nelly — I’ve two. That’s 
from Frank ; and here’s Kate’s, and a bulky one 
— four florins twelve — devil a less.” 

” Oh, give it to me ! Let me hear of her — 
let me feel beside her once again,” cried Nelly. 
And with bursting eagerness she tore open the 
envelope, from which two or three sealed notes 
fell out. “ This is from Lady Hester,” said 
she; “and this, a hand I do not know, but 
addressed to you; and here are bills or money 
orders for a large sum. What can all this 
mean ?” 

“ Can’t you read what she says ?” said Dal- 
ton, reddening, and suddenly remembering that 
Nelly was not aware of his having written to 
Kate. “ Give it to me, I’ll read it myself.” 
And he snatched the letter from her fingers. 
“There’s Frank’s for you.” 

“Oh, father, father!” cried Nelly, in a burst 
of grief, as she tore open Lady Hester’s letter ; 
“ it is as I feared, Kate is about to to be mar- 
ried — if she be not already married.” 

“ Without my leave — without asking my con- 
sent !” cried Dalton, passionately. “ Am I no- 
body at all ? Am I the head of the family, 
or am I not? Is this the way to treat her 
father ? May I never see light, if I won’t have 
him ‘ out,’ if he was a Prince of the Blood ! 
Oh, the ungrateful girl ! Leave off crying there, 
and tell me all about it. Read me her own let- 
ter, I say — if God will give me patience to listen 
to it.” 

With a bosom almost bursting, and a lip 
quivering with emotion, Ellen began : 

“ La Rocca, Lake of Como. 

L Dearest Father and Sister — Oh that I 
could throw myself at your feet, and pour out 
all that my heart is full of — tell you what I feel, 
and hope, and fear, and ask your counsel and 
your blessing. I know not if the last few days 
be real ; my poor head is turning amid the scenes 
I’ve passed through, and the emotions I have 
felt. I had no friend but Lady Hester — no 
adviser but her ! She has been a mother to me 
— not as you would have been, Nelly — not to 
warn and restrain, when perhaps both were 
needed, but to encourage and feed my hopes. I 
yielded to her counsels — ” 

“ I don’t understand one word of this,” cried 
Dalton, impatiently. “ What did she do ?” 

Nelly’s eyes ran rapidly over the lines with- 
out speaking, and then in a low, but distinct 
voice, she said, 

“ It is as I said ; she is betrothed to this 
great Russian Prince.” 

“ That fellow, they say, owns half Moscow. 
Fogles told us about him.” 

“Prince Midchikoff,” 


“ That’s the name. Well, it’s a fine match 
■—‘there’s no denying it. How did it come about ? 
and why didn’t lie come here and ask my con- 
sent? What’s the meaning of doing it all in 
this hurry?” 

“ The marriage can only take place in St. 
Petersburg, and in presence of the Emperor ; 
and she is merely betrothed at present, to 
enable her to accompany the lady, Madame 
de Heidendorf, to Russia, where the prince will 
follow in a few weeks.” 

“ That bangs Banagher. Why couldn’t they 
get a priest where they are ! Be gorra ! they’ve 
scruples about every thing but me ! I’m the 
one that’s not considered ! What the devil is 
the Emperor to her — sure he isn’t her father? 
Well, well, go on.” 

“ She would seem to have yielded to persua- 
sion,” said Nelly, feelingly. “The prince, with 
all his greatness, appears not to have won her 
heart. See how she dwells upon his immense 
wealth, and the splendor of his position.” 

“Let us hear about that,” cried Dalton, 
eagerly. 

“ My heart is nigh to bursting when I think 
of you and dearest Nelly living with me, in all 
the enjoyment that riches can bestow, nothing 
denied you that you can fancy, and free to in- 
dulge every taste and every wish. To know 
that I can at last repay, in some sort, all your 
affection — that, poor, worthless Kate can minis- 
ter to your pleasure and your comfort — would 
make me dare a rasher destiny than this. And 
he is so generous, Nelly. The whole of yester- 
day was like a page from the ‘ Arabian Nights,’ 
as I sat surrounded with gorgeous articles of 
gold and gems — diamonds such as a queen might 
wear, and rubies larger than the glass-drops I 
used to deck my hair with long ago ! And yet 
they tell me I have seen nothing as yet, and that 
the treasures of the Vladovitch Palace, I hear 
of at every moment, are greater than most 
royal houses. Lady Hester is kinder than ever, 
and the Heidendorf is, also ; but she is cold and 
reserved — too stately for my taste — and I can 
not overcome my awe of her. Is not this like 
a confession of my unfitness for the station I am 
to occupy ? — are not these signs of inferiority ? 
How little Hans would stare at the objects of 
taste and art by which I am surrounded, and of 
which I never tire in admiring. 

“ There have been great changes in this fam- 
ily since I wrote, and some mysterious circum- 
stance is now hanging over them ; but Lady 
Hester has not told me any thing, nor do I care 
to repeat rumors which reach me through others. 
I know that Sir Stafford is about to proceed to 
England as soon as Captain Onslow’s health 
will permit ; he, poor fellow, met with an 
accident on the day we left Florence, and my 
maid, who sat in the rumble, saw the mis- 
hap without knowing or suspecting the victim ! 
I have done every thing to obtain leave to visit 
you before I set out, or even to see you on my 
way ; but Madame de Heidendorf is absolute, 
and she has so much important business in hand 


( 


200 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


— such deep political affairs to transact at Vienna 
and Dresden — that I find it is impossible. 

“ The prince has promised to write at once 
about Frank. He sa} r s it will be better to ob- 
tain his promotion in the Austrian service before 
he enters the Russian; and that this shall take 
place immediately. I could see that on this 
point he was acutely alive to the fact of our 
humble position ; but he knows from Lady Hes- 
ter all about our family, and that the Daltons 
acknowledge nothing superior to them in birth. 
This, however, is always a difficulty to a for- 
eigner ; they have no idea of untitled nobility : 
and I saw his chagrin the other day, when I told 
him to address papa as plain Monsieur. Since 
yesterday morning I am called princess : and I 
can not conceal from you the throb of delight 
the sound still gives me ! I often stop to ask 
myself if this be all a dream, and shall I awake 
beside the fire and see dearest Nelly bending 
over some little group, and Hans with wonder- 
ing eyes staring over her shoulder ! 

“ The prince only intends to spend one winter 
in Russia. Madame de Heidendorf says that he 
will be named embassador at Paris ; but I hope 
and trust not : I feel too acutely mv inferiority 
for such a position. This she laughs at, and 
merely says, ‘ Nous verrons.’ Of course, wher- 
ever I am, you will both be with me ; mean- 
while, what would you wish to do ? I told Mon- 
sieur Rubion, the prince’s Secretary, that 1 want- 
ed money, and he gave me these bills, so he 
called them, on Baden and Carlsruhe, as easily 
negotiable in that neighborhood ; pray, say if 
they be serviceable. The prince intends to visit 
you at Baden ; and I suppose you will like to 
see him. His manners are perfect, and, except 
a degree of constraint in first acquaintance, he 
is generally thought very agreeable. Such 
preparation as they are making for my journey, 
you’d fancy I was a queen at the very least. 
All my trousseau is to come from Paris direct; 
and up to this I have merely what Madame de 
H. calls the strictly ‘ indispensable ;’ which, 
shall I own, contrives to fill two large fourgons 
and a heavy traveling-carriage. Nina is in a 
perfect ecstasy at every thing, and is eter- 
nally ‘draping’ me in Brussels lace and Chan- 
tilly ; so that, even while I write, these flimsy 
tissues are floating around me ; while caskets 
of jewels and precious gems dazzle my eyes 
wherever I turn them. 

“The whole is like a gorgeous vision ; would 
that it might remain ever thus, for I almost 
rtremble to take a step further. Are these un- 
worthy fears ? I hope they are !” Nelly paus- 
ed, and laid down the letter on her knee. 

“ Well, may I never see ‘ Grace,’ if that letter 
isn’t enough to confuse a bench of Bishops !” 
cried Dalton. “ She’s marrying the first man 
in Europe — be the other who he will — and she 
has as many crotchets and misgivings about it 
as if it was little Hans, there, below ! And he a 
prince ! a real prince ! devil a doubt of it, that 
-scatters the money about like chaff. Here’s an 
order at sight for nine hundred gulden; and 


here’s a bill at ten days — a nice date — for four- 
teen hundred and eighty-six Prussian dollars; 
and this is nearly as much more. Kate, my 
beauty, I knew you’d do it ! I never looked at 
you, in your old clogs and the worsted cloak, 
that I didn’t think of the day I’d see you in satin 
and velvet ! Faix ! it’s the best bottle of claret 
in the Adler I’ll drink your health in, this day ! 
Nelly, who will we ask in to dinner?” 

“ Don’t you think, papa, it -were better we 
should not speak of this — ” 

“ Why, better ? Are we ashamed of it ?” 

“ I mean more prudent as regards ourselves, 
and more respectful to the prince.” 

“ Respectful — to my son-in-law 1 — that’s 
‘more of it.’ Upon my conscience I’ll have to 
go to school again in my old days. I know no- 
thing of life at all, at all ! Respect, indeed !” 

“ I would but suggest, papa, that for Kate’s 
sake — ” 

“ There — there — don’t provoke me. I never 
set my heart on a thing yet — big or little — that 
I wasn’t met with a caution about this, or a warn- 
ing about that, till at last I got so tutored, and 
corrected, and trained, that, as Billy Morris 
used to say at whist, ‘ I dread a good hand more 
than a bad one.’ ” 

“Far be it from me, dearest father,” said 
Nelly, smiling, “ to throw a shadow over a 
bright moment. If it will give you pleasure — ” 

“ Sure I said it would — sure I told you ’tis 
what I’d like. A fine dinner at the ‘ Schwan’ 
— four gulden a head, without wine — a dozen 
of champagne in ice — hock for them that can 
drink it — and port and Lafitte for Peter Dalton, 
and men of his own sentiments. There’s the 
programme, Nelly, and you’ll see if I can’t fill 
the details.” 

“Well, but we have yet much to do; here 
are several letters — here is Frank’s. Let us 
learn how the dear fellow fares.” 

Dalton sat down without speaking ; there 
was. indeed, more of resignation than curiosity 
in his features, as he crossed his arms and listened, 

“Dearest Neli.y — I only heard a few days 
ago that my two last letters had been stopped ; 
they were not, as they should have been, sub- 
mitted to my captain to read, and hence they 
were arrested and suppressed. This goes by a 
private hand — a friend of mine — a peddler from 
Donaueschingen — ” 

“A what? — a peddler is it?” broke in Dal- 
ton, angrily. 

“Yes, papa; remember that poor Frank is 
still in the ranks.” 

“ Well, God give me patience with you all !” 
burst out the old man, in a torrent of passion. 
“ Does he know that lie’s a Dalton ? — does he 
feel blood in his veins? Why the blazes must 
he seek out a thieving blaguard with a pack 
full of damaged cambric to make a friend of? 
Is this the way the family’s getting up in the 
world ?” 

“ Adolf Brawer, by name,” read on Nelly, in 
a low and subdued voice. “ You will be sur- 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 201 

prised when I tell you that I owe all his kind- to the 1 Koertnor Thor, 1 to the Field-Marshal 
ness and good-nature to you — yes, to your own von Auersberg’s quarters. I’m not sure if I 
dear self. On his way through the Tyrol he had didn’t say to my uncle’s. Away we went gayly, 
bought two wooden statuettes — one, a young and soon drew up in an old-fashioned court-yard 
soldier asleep beside a well; the other, a girl from which a great stair led up four stories 
leaning from a window to hear the bugles of a high, at the top of which the ‘ Feld’ — so they 
departing regiment. Can you guess whose they called him — resided. This was somewhat of a 
were ? And when he came to know that I was come-down to my high-flown expectations, but 
the brother of the little N. D., that was sculp- nothing to what I felt as the door was opened 
tured, half-hid in a corner, and that I was the by an old Jager with one leg, instead of, as I 
original of the tired, wayworn recruit on the looked for, a lackey in a grand livery. 

“‘What is’t cadet? 1 said he, in a tone of 
the coolest familiarity. 

“ ‘ The Field-Marshal von Auersberg lives 
here?’ said I. 

“ He nodded. 

“ ‘ I wish to see him. 1 t . ' 

“ He shook his head gravely, and scanning 
me from head to foot, said, ‘ Not at this hour, 
cadet — not at this hour. 1 

“ ‘ Let him see this card, 1 said I, giving 
like a dream on my mind, and I used to say to one with my name. ‘ I’m certain he’ll reeeive 


roadside, I thought he would have cried with 
enthusiasm.” 

“Didn’t I often say it?” broke in Dalton, as, 
wringing his hands indespair, he paced the room 
with hasty strides. “ Didn’t I warn you a 
thousand times about them blasted images, and 
tell you that, sooner or later, it would get about 
who made them ? Didn’t I caution you about 
the disgrace you’d bring on us? The fear of 
this w T as over me this many a day. I had it ( 


myself, it will all come out yet.” 

Nelly covered her face with her apron as these 
bitter words were spoken ; but not a syllable, 
nor a sigh, did she reply to them ; still the frail 
garment shook with an emotion that show T ed how 
intensely she suffered. 

“ A virgin sold here — an angel Gabriel there; 
now it was Hamlet — another time Gotz with 
the Iron Hand. All the balderdash that ever 


me.' 

“ I believe if I had presented a pistol at him, 
the old fellow would have been less startled, as 
he exclaimed, ‘ A cadet with a visiting card ! 
This would serve you little with the Feld, 
younker,’ cried he, handing it back to me; ‘he 
likes to see a soldier, a soldier. 1 

“‘Tell him my name, then, 1 said I, angrily, 
‘say that his grand-nephew, Frank Dalton, has 


came into your head scattered over the world been standing at his door in full parley with a 
to bring shame on us ! And then to think of ; servant for ten minutes. 1 

Kate!” j “The announcement created little of the 

“ Yes, dearest father, do think of her,” cried astonishment I calculated on, and the old soldier 
Nelly, passionately ; “ she is, indeed, an honor merely replied, ‘ All under field-officer’s rank 
and a credit to vou.” come before eight of a morning. You can not 

“ And so might you have been too, Nelly,” expect to have the privilege of an archduke. 1 
rejoined he, half sorry for his burst of anger, j He was about to close the door in my face as he 
“ I’m sure I never made any difference between spoke, but I placed my shoulder against it and 
you. I treated you all alike, God knows.” forced it back, thus securing an entrance with- 


And truly, if an indiscriminating selfishness 
could plead for him, the apology was admira- 
ble. 

“ Yes, papa ; but Nature was less generous,” 
said Nelly, smiling through her tears; and she 
again turned to the letter before her. As if 
fearful to revive the unhappy discussion, she 
passed rapidly over Frank’s account of his 


in the forbidden precincts. 

“ ‘ Right about, quick march !’ cried he, 
pointing to the door, while his whole frame 
trembled with passion. 

“ ‘ Not till you have delivered my message, 1 
said I, calmly. 

“ ‘ Then bey’m Blitzen I will deliver it, and 
see how you’ll like it, 1 cried he, as he stumped 


friend’s ecstasy, nor did she read aloud till she away down a passage and entered a room at 
came to the boy’s narrative of his own fortunes. 

u You ask me about Count Stephen, and the 
answer is a short one. I have seen him only 
once. Our battalion, which was stationed at 
Laybach, only arrived in Vienna about three 


the end of it. I could soon hear the sound of 
voices, and for a moment I was almost determ- 
ined to beat a retreat, when suddenly the old 
Jager came out and beckoned me forward. 
There was a grin of most diabolical delight on 


weeks ago, but feeling it a duty to wait on our the old fellow’s features, as I passed into the 
relative, I obtained leave one evening to go and room and closed the door behind me. 
pay my respects. Adolf, who knew of my con- ; “As well as I could see in the imperfect 
nection with the Field-Marshal, had lent me light, for it was after sunset, the apartment was 
200 florins : and this, too, I was anxious to pay large and low-ceilinged, with bookshelves round 
off — another reason for this visit. j the walls, and stands for weapons and military 

“ Well, I dressed myself in my best cadet equipments here and there through it. At the 
cloth and silk sword-knot, Nelly — none of your stove, and busily engaged in watching a coflee- 
‘commissaire 1 toggery, but all fine and smart- pot, sat the Feld himself, a loose gray overcoat 
looking, as a gentleman-cadet ought to be, and covering his figure, and concealing all of him 
then calling a fiacre, I ordered the man to drive , but two immense jack-boots that peeped out 


202 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


beneath. He wore a Miitze, a kind of Hunga- 
rian cap, and a long pipe depended from his 
mouth, the bowl resting on the carpet. The 
most conspicuous feature of all, was, however, 
his enormous mustache, which, white as snow, 
touched his collar-bone at either side. 

“ He never spoke a word as I entered, but 
stared at me steadfastly and sternly for full 
three or four minutes. Half abashed by this 
scrutiny, and indignant besides at the reception, 

I was about to advance toward him, when he 
called out, as if on parade, ‘ Halt ! What regi- 
ment, cadet?’ 

“‘Franz Karl Infantry, third battalion,’ said 
I, instantly saluting with my hand. 

“ ‘ Your name ?’ 

“ ‘Frank Dalton.’ 

“ ‘ Your business?’ , . ' 

“‘To visit my grand-uncle, the Field-Mar- 
shal von Auersberg.’ 

“ ‘ And is it thus, younker,’ cried he, rising, 
and drawing himself up to his full height, ‘that 
you dare to present yourself before a Feldzeug- 
meister of the Imperial Army? Have they 
not taught you even the commonest rules of 
discipline ? Have they left you in the native 
barbarism of your own savage country, that you 
dare, against my orders, present yourself be- 
fore me ?’ 

“‘I thought the claim of kindred — ’ began 

I. 

“ ‘ What know I of kindred, sirrah ? What 
have kith and kin availed me ? I have stood 
alone in the world. It was not to kindred I 
owed my life on the field of Rosbach 5 nor was 
it a relative stanched my bleeding wounds at 
Wagram !’ 

“ ‘ The name of Dalton — ’ 

“ ‘ I have won a prouder one, sir, and would 
not be reminded by you from what I’ve started. 
Where’s your character-certificate ?’ 

“ ‘ I have not brought it with me, Herr Gen- 
eral. I scarcely thought it would be the first 
question my father’s uncle would put to me.’ 

“ ‘ There was prudence in the omission, too, 
sir^ said he, not heeding my remark. ‘But I 
have it here.’ And he drew from a portfolio on 
the table a small slip of paper, and read : 
‘ “ Cadet Dalton, second company of the third 
battalion, Franz Karl Regiment. — Smart on 
service, and quick in discipline, but forward and 
petulant with those above him in rank. Dis- 
posed to pride himself on birth and fortune, and 
not sufficiently submissive to orders. Twice in 
arrest, once kurzgeschlossen.’ * A creditable 
character, sir! Twice in arrest and once in 
irons ! And with this you claim kindred with 
a Count of the Empire, and an Imperial Field- 
Marshal ! On the fifth of last month you en- 
tertained a party at dinner at the Wilde Mann — 
most of them men of high rank and large fortune. 
On the eighteenth you drove through Maria 
Tell with a team of four horses, and passed the 
drawbridge and the moat in full gallop. So late 
as Wednesday last you hoisted a green flag on the 
steeple of the village church, on pretense of 


honoring your father’s birthday. I know each 
incident of your career, sir, and have watched 
you with shame and regret. Tell your father, 
when you write to him, that all the favor of my 
august master would not endure the test of two 
such proteges. And now, back to your quar- 
ters.’ 

“ He motioned me to retire with a gesture, 
and I fell back, almost glad at any cost to 
escape. I had just reached the stair, when the 
Jager called me back to his presence. 

“ ‘ Art an only son ?’ asked the count, for the 
first time addressing me in the second person. 

“ I bowed. 

“ ‘ And hast three sisters ?’ 

“ 4 Two, Herr General.’ 

“ ‘ Older, or younger than thyself? 

“ ‘ Both older, sir.’ 

“ ‘ How have they been brought up ? Have 
they learned thrift, and housecraft ; or are they 
wasteful, and reckless, as their native country 
and their name would bespeak them ?’ 

“ ‘ Our humble fortune is the best answer to 
that question, sir.’ 

“ ‘ It is not, sirrah,’ cried he, angrily. ‘ The 
spendthrift habit survives every remnant of the 
state that gave it birth, and the beggar can be 
as improvident as the prince. Go; thou hast 
as much to learn of the world as of thy duty. 
Head erect, sir ; shoulders back ; the right 
thumb more forward. If the rest of the battal- 
ion be like thee, I’ll give them some work on 
the Prater ere long.’ 

“ A haughty wave of his hand now finished our 
interview, and, once outside the door, I descend- 
ed the stairs, a whole flight at every bound, in 
terror lest any thing should induce him to recall 
me. Y : ■ f . '' " 

“ And this is uncle Stephen, Nelly — this the 
great protector we used to build our hopes upon, 
and flatter ourselves would be a second father 
to us !, 

“ When I came out into the street, I knew 
not which way to turn. I dreaded the very 
sight of a comrade, lest he should ask me about 
our meeting, what pocket-money he had given 
me, and how soon I should be an officer. It 
was only when I saw Adolf coming toward me 
that I remembered all about my debt to him, of 
which I had not spoken one word to my uncle. 
I ought to have told him so, frankly. Yes, 
Nelly, 1 can hear the murmured displeasure 
with which you read my confession, ‘that I 
couldn’t do it.’ I was unequal to the effort, 
and could not bring myself to destroy that 
whole fabric of fictitious interest in which I had 
wrapped myself. What would Adolf have 
thought of me when I said, I have neither 
wealth, nor station, nor prospect — as humblo 
a soldier as the sentry you see yonder ? What 
would become of that romance of life in which 
we have so often spent hours reveling in a 
brilliant future, every incident of which grew 
up in our united fancies, and seemed to assume 
reality as we discussed it? Where — oh, Nelly ! 
to jou I must reveal all— —every weakness, every 


203 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


littleness of my nature — where would be the 
homage of respect the poor Bursche was wont 
to show the nephew of a Field-Marshal? No, 
it was above my strength ; and so I took his 
arm, and talked away heedlessly about our 
meeting, avoiding, where I could, all mention 
of my uncle, and but jocularly affecting to think 
him an original, whose strange, old fashioned 
manners almost concealed the strong traits of 
family affection. 

‘“What of thy promotion, Frank?’ asked 
Adolf. 

“ ‘ It will come in its own good time,’ said I, 
carelessly. c Nothing causes more dissatisfac- 
tion than the rapid advancement of cadets of 
noble family.’ 

“ ‘ But they should make thee a corporal, at 
least?’ 

“ I laughed scornfully at the remark, and 
merely said, ‘ They may skip over the whole 
sous-offieier-grade, and only remember me when 
I’m to be made a lieutenant.’ 

“ ‘ Thou hast grown haughtier, Frank,’ said 
he, half-reproach fully, c since thy meeting with 
the “Feld.” Mayhap in a day or two thou 
wilt not like to be seen in company with a 
“ Wander-Bursche ?” 

“I was bursting to throw my arms round his 
neck, and say, ‘ Never, whatever fortune, have 
in store for me ; thy friendship is like a brother’s 
and can never be forgotten;’ but pride — yes, 
Nelly, the cursed pride against which you used 
to warn me — sealed my lips; and when I spoke, 
it was something so cold, so meaningless, and 
so unworthy, that he left me. I know not how ! 
No sooner was I alone, Nelly, than I burst into 
tears. I cried for very shame ; and if agony 
could expiate my fault, mine should have done 
so. What humiliation before my friend could 
equal that I now felt before my own heart ! I 
thought of all your teachings, dearest Nelly; of 
the lessons you gave me over and over against 
this besetting sin of my nature ! I thought of 
our home, where poor Hanserl was treated by 
us as a friend ! I thought of our last parting, 
and the words you spoke to me in warning 
against this very pride — ignoble and mean as it 
is ; and oh ! what would I have given to have 
thrown myself into Adolf’s arms, and told him 
every thing ! I have never seen him since ; he 
wrote to me a few lines, saying that he should 
pass through Baden on his way to Frankfort, 
and offering to carry a letter for me ; but not 
once did he allude to my debt, nor was there 
the slightest hint of its existence. On this I 
wrote an acknowledgment of the loan, and a 
pressing entreaty that he would come and see 
me; but he pretended one thing and another; 
affected engagements at the only hours I was 
free ; and at last abruptly sent for my letter just 
when I was writing it. I had much more to 
tell you, Nelly, of myself, of the service, and of 
my daily life here ; but my thoughts are now 
disturbed and scattered ; and I feel, too, how 
your shame for my shortcoming will take away 
interest from what I sav. You Nelly, will 


have courage to be just : tell him all that I have 
been weak enough to conceal ; let him know 
what suffering my unworthy shame has cost 
me ; and, above all, that 1 am not ungrateful. 

“ It seems like a dream all that you tell me 
of Kate. Is she still in Italy, and where ? 
Would she write to me ? I am ashamed to ask 
the question of herself. They spoke of our 
brigade being sent to Lombardy; but even 
there I might be far away from her; and if 
near, in the very same city, our stations would 
separate us still more widely. Oh, Nelly ! is it 
worth all the success, ever ambition, the most 
successful, won, thus to tear up the ties of 
family, and make brothers and sisters strangers? 
Would that I were back again with you, and 
dearest Kate, too ! I see no future here ; the 
dull round of daily discipline, teaching nothing 
but obedience, shuts out speculation and hope ! 
Where are the glorious enterprises — the splen- 
did chances I often dreamed of? My happiest 
moments now are recalling the past ; the long 
winter evenings beside the hearth, while Hans 
was reading out to us. There are rumors of 
great changes in the world of Europe ; but to 
us they are only the thunderings of a distant 
storm, to break out in what quarter we know 
not. Oh, Nelly ! if it should lead to war ! if 
some glorious struggle were to break in upon 
this sluggish apathy ! 

“ Adolf has sent again for this letter, so I 
must close it. He will not, he says, pass 
through Baden, but will post this in Munich — 
so good-by, dearest sister. Tell poor papa all 
that you dare to tell of me ; and farewell. 

“Frank Dalton. 

“ When you write, it must be under cover to 
the 1 Herr Hauptmann von Gauss, 2ten Compag- 
nie, 3 Linien Batallion, Franz Karl Infanterie. 1 
Don’t forget this long address, nor add a line 
to the captain himself, who is a good-looking 
fellow, but somewhat conceited. 

“ I have just heard old Auersberg is to have 
a command again. I’m heartily ‘sorry for it. 
So much for family influence !” 

If the reader’s patience has lasted through 
this long letter of Frank’s it was more than 
Peter Dalton’s did. For what between his 
ecstasy at Kate’s good fortune, his own rambling 
speculations on all that should follow from it, 
and, above all, what from the slurring monoto- 
nous tone in which Nelly passed over such por- 
tions as she did not wish him to hear, he grew 
gradually more abstracted and dreamy, and at 
last fell off into a deep and most happy slumber. 
Not a syllable did he hear of the old Feld’s 
reception of Frank, nor did he even awake as 
little Hans stumped into the room, with a staff 
in either hand ; aids, that since his accident, he 
could never dispense with. 

“ I heard that you had letters, Fraulein,” said 
he; “do they bring good tidings?” 

“ Some would call them so, Hanserl,” said 
she, with a sigh. “Kate is about to be mar- 
ried.” 


204 THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Hanserl made no reply, but sat slowly down, 
and crossed his arms before him. 

“ The great Russian Prince Midchikoff, of 
•whom you may have heard.” 

“I have seen him, Fraulein; he was here in 
Baden, three years ago.” 

“Oh, then tell me, Hanserl, what is he like? 
Is he young and frank-looking ? — seems he one 
that should have won a maiden’s heart so sud- 
denly, that — that — ” 

“ No, not that she couldn’t have written to 
her sister and asked for counsel, Fraulein,” said 
Hans, continuing her sentence. “ The prince 
is a cold, austere man, proud to his equals I 
believe, but familiar enough to such as me. I 
remember how he asked me of my life — where 
I came from, and how I lived. He seemed 
curious to hear about the train of thoughts 
suggested by living amid objects of such childish 
interest, and asked me ‘ If I did not often fancy 
that this mock world around me was the real 
one ?’ ‘ You are right, Herr Prinz,’ said I ; 

‘but, after all, here at least we are equals.’ 
‘ How so ?’ said he. ‘ That your real world is 
as great a mockery as mine.’ ‘ Thou art right, 
dwarf,’ said he, thoughtfully, and fell a-musing. 
He should not have called me dwarf, for men 
know me as Hans Roeckle — and this is your 
sister’s husband 1” 

“ Is he mild, and gentle-mannered ?” asked 
Nelly, eagerly. 

“The great are always so, so far as I have 
seen ; none but base metal rings loudly, maiden. 
It is part of their pride to counterfeit humility.” 

“And his features, Hans?” 

“ Like one of those portraits in the gallery at 
Wiirtzburg. One who had passions and a 
temper for a feudal age, and was condemned to 
the slavery of our civilization.” 

“He is much older than Kate?” asked she 
again. 

“ I have seen too few like him even to guess 
at his age; besides, men of his stamp begin 
life with old temperaments, and time wears 
them but little.” 

“ Oh, Hanserl, this seems not to promise 
well. Kate’s own nature is frank, generous, 
and impulsive; how will it consort with the 
cold traits of his ?” 

“ She marries not for happiness, but for ambi- 
tion, maiden. They who ascend the mountain- 
top to look down upon the scene below them, 
must not expect the sheltering softness of the val- 
ley at their feet. The Fraulein Kate, is beauti- 
ful, and she w T ould have the homage that is paid 
to beauty. She has chosen her road in life ; let 
us at least hope she knows how to tread it !” 

There was a tone of almost sternness in 
Hanserl’s manner that Nelly well knew boded 
deep and intense feeling, and she forbore to 
question him lurther for some time. 

“You will leave this, then, Fraulein?” said 
he at last ; “you will quit the humble valley for 
the great world ?” 

“ I know not, Hanserl, what my father may 


decide. Kate speaks of our joining her in 
Russia; but the long journey, in his infirm 
state, not to speak of other reasons, may prevent 
this. Shall I tell you of Frank? Here is a 
long letter from him.” And, almost without 
waiting for his reply, she read out the greater 
portion of the epistle. 

“I like the old Feld !” cried Hans, enthusias- 
tically. “ He would teach the boy submission, 
and self-reliance too — lessons that, however 
wide apart they seem, go ever hand in hand ; 
an old warrior that has trained his bold nature 
to habits of obedience in many a year of trial 
and injustice, unfriended and alone, with nothing 
but his stout heart and good sword to sustain 
him. I like that Feld, and would gladly pledge 
him in a glass of Steinberger !” 

“And you shall, my little man,” said Dalton, 
waking up, and catching the last words of 
Hanserl’s speech. “ The old count was kind to 
Frank, and I’ll drink his health this night, with 
all the honors. Read him the letter, Nelly. 
Show him how old Stephen received the boy. 
That’s blood for you! — a true Dalton!” 

Hanserl stared from father to daughter, and 
back again, without speaking ; while Nelly, 
blushing deeply, held down her head, without a 
word. 

“ His letter to us was dry enough. But 
what matter for that ? He never wrote a line 
— maybe, didn’t speak a word of English for 
upward of forty years. You can’t expect a man 
to have the ‘ Elegant Correspondent’ at his 
fingei's’ ends after that space of time. But the 
heart ! — that’s the main point, Hans. The 
heart is in the right place. Read that bit over 
again, Nelly; I forget the w r ords he said.” 

“ Oh, no, papa. Hans has just heard it all, 
from beginning to end ; and you know we have 
so much to do. Here’s Lady Hester’s note, and 
here’s one from the prince, still unopened.” 

“ Ay, to be sure. I’m certain you’ll excuse 
me, Hans,” said Dalton, putting on his specta- 
cles, while he assumed a manner of condescend- 
ing urbanity very puzzling to the poor dwarf. 
“Why, Nelly, dear, this is French. Give me 
that note of Lady Hester’s, and do you take 
this. Oh ! by my conscience I’m no better off 
now ! The devil such writing as this ever I 
seen! It’s all ‘m’s’ and ‘w’s,’ every bit of it. 
You’ll keep them both for the evening, my dear. 
Hans will dine with us, and I’ll go out to look 
for a bit of fish, and see if I can find another 
pleasant fellow to round off the table with us. 
God be w r ith old Kilmurray M‘Mahon, where I 
could have had twenty, as easy as two, and each 
of them a good warrant for four bottles besides ! 
Isn’t it a droll world?” muttered he, as he took 
down his hat and descended the stairs. “ A 
good dinner, and only a cripple for company ! 
Faix! I’m like the chap in the Bible, that had 
to ask the beggars and the blaguards, when he 
couldn’t get better.” And with this very wise 
reflection Peter Dalton hummed a jig to himself 
as he took his way to the fish-market. 


^CHAPTER XLIY. 

A HAPPY DAY FOR PETER DALTON. 


* A youthful heir never experienced a more 
glorious burst of delight on the morning of his 
twenty-first birthday, than did Peter Dalton feel 
as he sauntered down the principal street of 
Baden. It was with a step almost elastic, and 
his head high, that he went along ; not humbly 
returning the “ Good-day” of the bowing shop-- 
keepers, but condescendingly calling his worthy 
creditors — for such nearly all of them were — 
by their Christian names, he gave them to be- 
lieve that he was still, as ever, their kind and 
generous patron ! 

There was scarcely a shop or a stall he did 
not linger beside for a minute or two. Every 
where there was something not only which he 
liked, but actually needed. Never did wants 
accumulate so rapidly ! With a comprehensive 
grasp they extended to every branch of trade 
and merchandise — ranging from jewelry to gin, 
and taking in all, from fur slippers to sausages. 

His first visit was to Abel Kraus, the banker 
and money-lender — a little den, which often be- 
fore he had entered with a craven heart and a 
sinking spirit, for Abel was a shrewd old Israelite, 
and seemed to read the very schedule of a man’s 
debts in the wrinkles around his mouth. Dalton 
now unbarred the half door, and stalked in, as 
if he would carry the place by storm. 

The man of money was munching his break- 
fast of hard eggs and black bread — the regula- 
tion full diet of misers in all Germany — when 
Peter cavalierly touched his hat, and sat down. 
Not a word did Abel speak. No courtesies about 
the season or the weather, the funds or the money- 
market, were worth bestowing on so poor a client, 
and so he ate on, scarcely deigning even a glance 
toward him. 

“ When you’re done with the garlic, old boy, 
I’ve some work for you,” said Dalton, crossing 
his arms pretentiously. 

“ But what if I do not accept your work ? 
What, if I tell you that we shall have no more 
dealings together? The two last bills — ” 

“They’ll be paid, Abel — they’ll be paid. 
Don’t put yourself in a passion. Times is im- 
proving — Ireland’s looking up, man.” 

“I think she is,” muttered the Jew, insolent- 
ly ; “ she is looking up like the beggar that asks 
for alms, yonder.” 

“Tear and ages !” cried Dalton, with a stroke 
of his fist upon the table, that made every wooden 
bowl of gold and silver coin jump and ring again. 
“ Tear and ages! take care what you say. By 
the soul in my body, ii you say a syllable against 
the old country, I’ll smash every stick in the 
place, and your own bones beside ! Ye miser- 


able ould heathen ! that hasn’t a thought above 
sweating a guinea — how dare you do it ?” 

“ Why, do you come into my counting-house 
to insult me, saar ? Why, you come where no 
one ask you ?” 

“Is it waiting for an invitation I’d be Abel; 
is it expecting a card with ould Kraus’s compli- 
ments,” said Dalton, laughing. “Sure, isn’t 
the place open like the fish-market, or the bull- 
ring, or the chapel, or any place of divarsion ! 
There, now; keep your temper, old boy. I tell 
ye, there’s luck before ye! What d’ye think of 
that?” And, as he spoke, he drew forth one of 
the bills, and handed it across the counter; and 
then, after gloating as it were over the changed 
expression of the Jew’s features, he handed a 
second, and a third. 

“ These are good papers, Herr von Dalton ; 
no better. The exchange, too, is in your favor; 
we are giving — let me see — ten and three- 
eighths ‘ Convenzions-Gelt.’ ” 

“ To the devil I fling your three-eighths !” 
cried Dalton. “ I never forgot the old song at 
school that says, ‘Fractions drives me mad.’ ” 

“ Ah, always droll — always merry !” cackled 
out Abel. “ How will you have these moneys?” 

“ In a bag — a good strong canvas-bag !” 

“ Yes, to be sure, in a bag ; but I was asking 
how you’d have them. I mean, in what coin — 
in what for ‘ Gelt.’ ” 

“Oh, that’s it!” cried Dalton. “Well, give 
me a little of every thing. Let me have 1 Louis’ 
to spend, and ‘ Groschen’ to give the beggars. 
Bank-notes, too, I like ; one feels no regret in 
parting with the dirty paper, that neither jingles 
nor shines : and a few crown pieces, Abel ; the 
ring of them on a table is like a brass band J” 

“ So you shall — so you shall, Herr von Dalton. 
Ha! ha! ha! You are the only man ever make 
me laugh!” 

“ By my conscience, then, it’s more than you 
deserve, Abel ; for you’ve very often nearly 
made me cry,” said Dalton, with a little sigh 
over the past, as he recalled it to his memory. 

The Jew did not either heed or hear the re- 
mark ; for, having put away the remnant of his 
frugal breakfast, he now began a very intricate 
series of calculations respecting interest, and ex- 
change, and commission, at which poor Dalton 
gazed in a most complete mystification. 

“ Fourteen hundred and sixty-three, at ten 
three-eighths — less cost of commission ; I will 
not charge you the one per cent — ” 

“ Charge all that’s fair, and no favor, old boy.” 

“I mean, that I will not treat tho Ilerr von 
Dalton like a stranger — ” 


206 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ I was going to say, treat me like a Christian,” 
said Dalton, laughing ; “ but maybe that’s the 
most expensive thing going.” 

“ Always droll — always have his jest,” cackled 
Abel. “ Now, there’s an agio on gold, you pay 
five kreutzers for every Louis.” 

“ By George, I’ll take a ship load of them at 
the same price.” 

“ Ha ! I mean you pay that over the value,” 
said the Jew. 

“ Faix ! I often promised to pay more,” said 
Dalton, sighing; “and what’s worse, on stamped 
paper, too !” 

As the Jew grew deeper in his figures, Dal- 
ton rambled on about Ireland and her prospects, 
for he wished it to be supposed that his present 
affluence was the long-expected remittance from 
his estates. “ We’ll get right yet,” muttered 
he, “ if they’ll only give us time ; but ye see, 
this is the way it is : we’re like an overloaded 
beast that can’t pull his cart through the mud, 
an’ then the English comes up, and thrashes us. 
By course, we get weaker and weaker — licking 
and abusing never made any one strong yet. 
At last down we come on our knees with a 
smash. Well, ye’d think, then, that any body 
with a grain of sense would say, ‘ Take some 
of the load off the poor devil’s back — ease him 
a bit till he gets strength.’ Nothing of the kind. 
All they do is to tell us that we ought to be 
ashamed of ourselves for falling — that every 
other people was doing well but ourselves — 
that it’s a way we have of lying down, just to 
get somebody to pick us up, and such like. 
And the blaguard newspapers raises the cry 
against us, and devil a thief, or a housebreaker, 
or a highway robber they take, that they don’t 
put him down in the police reports as a ‘ hulking 
Irishman,’ or a ‘native of the Emerald Isle.’ 
‘ Paddy Fitzsimons, or Peter O’Shea, was 
brought up this mornin’ for cutting off his wife’s 
head with a trowel. Molly Maguire was in- 
dicted for scraping her baby to death with an 
oyster-shell.’ That’s the best word they have 
for us! ‘Ain’t ye the plague of our lives?’ 
they’re always saying. ‘ Do ye ever give us a 
moment’s peace?’ And why the blazes don’t 
ye send us adrift, then ?’ Why don’t ye let us 
take our own road. We don’t want your com- 
pany — faix ! we never found it too agreeable. 
It’s come to that now, that it would better be 
a Hottentot or a Chinese than an Irishman ! 
Oh, dear, oh, dear, but we’re hardly treated !” 

“Will you run your eye over that paper, 
Herr von Dalton, and see if it be all correct?” 
said Abel, handing him a very complex-looking 
array of figures. 

“ ’Tis little the wiser I’ll be when I do,” 
muttered Dalton to himself, as he put on his 
spectacles and affected to consider the statement. 
“Fourteen hundred and sixty-three — I wish 
they were pounds, but they’re only florins — and 
two thousand eight hundred and twenty-one — 
five and two is seven and nine is fifteen. No, 
seven and nine is — I wish Nelly was here. Bad 
luck to the multiplication-table. I used to be 


licked for it every day when I was a boy, and 
it’s been a curse to me since I was a man. 
Seven and nine is fourteen, or thereabouts — a 
figure wouldn’t signify much, one way or t’other. 
Interest at three-quarters for twenty-one days — 
there I’m done complete ! Out of the four first 
rules in Gough I’m a child, and indeed, to tell 
the truth, I’m no great things after subtraction.” 

“ You will perceive that I make the charges 
for postage, commission, and any other expenses, 
in one sum. This little claim of fifty-eight florins 
covers all.” 

“ Well, and reasonable it is, that I must say,’' 
cried Dalton, who, looking at the whole as s 
lucky windfall, was by no means indisposed tc 
see others share in the good fortune. “ How 
much is coming to me, Abel?” 

“ Your total balance is four thousand tw< 
hundred and twenty-seven florins eight kreutzers, 
Miintze,” said Abel, giving the sum a resonance 
of voice highly imposing and impressive. 

“ How many pounds is that, now ?” asked 
Peter. 

“ Something over three hundred and fifty 
pounds sterling, sir.” 

“Is it ? Faith ! a neat little sum. Not but 
I often got rid of as much of an evening at blind- 
hookey, with Old Carters, of the ‘ Queen Bays.’ 
Ye don’t know Carters? Faix! and ye’d be 
the very man he would know, if ye were in the 
same neighborhood. I wish he was here to- 
day; and that reminds me that I must go over 
to the market, and see what’s to be had. Ye 
don’t happen to know if there’s any fish to- 
day?” 

Abel could not answer this important ques- 
tion, but offered to send his servant to inquire ; 
but Dalton, declining the attention, strolled out 
into the street, jingling his Napoleons in his 
pocket as he went, and feeling all the importance 
and self-respect that a well-filled purse confers 
on him who has long known the penniless straits 
of poverty. He owed something on every side 
of him ; but he could bear to face his creditors, 
now : he was neither obliged to be occupied 
with a letter, or sunk in a fit of abstraction as 
he passed them ; nay, he was even jocular and 
familiar, and ventured to criticise the wares for 
which, once, he was almost grateful. 

“ Send your boy down to the house for some 
money — ye needn’t mind the bill ; but I’ll give 
you fifty florins. — There’s a trifle on account. 
— Put them ten Naps to my credit; that will 
wipe off some of our scores ; it’s good for forty 
crowns.” Such were the brief sentences that 
he addressed to the amazed shop-keepers, as he 
passed along ; for Peter, like Louis Philippe, 
couldn’t bear the sight of an account, and always 
paid something in liquidation. It was with great 
reluctance that he abstained from inviting each 
of them to dinner; nothing but his fear of dis- 
pleasing Nelly could have restrained him. He 
would have asked the whole village if he dared, 
and aye made them drunk too, if they’d have let 
him. “ She’s so high in her notions,” he kept 
muttering to himself; “that confounded pride 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


about family, and the like ! Well, thank God ! 
I never had that failing. If I knew we were 
better than other people, it never made me un- 
neighhorly 5 I was always free and affable ; my 
worst enemy couldn’t say other of me. I’d like 
to have these poor devils to dinner, and give them 
a skinful for once in their lives, just to drink 
Kate’s health, and Frank’s : they’d think of the 
Daltons for many a long year to come — the good 
old Dalton blood, that never mixed with the 
puddle ! What a heavenly day it is ! and an 
elegant fine market. There’s a bit of roasting 
beef would feed a dozen • and maybe that isn’t 
a fine trout! Well, well, but them’s cauli- 
flowers ! Chickens and ducks — chickens and 
ducks — a whole street of them ! And there’s a 
wild turkey — mighty good eating, too ! and 
venison ! — ah ! but it hasn’t the flavor, nor the 
fat ! Faix ! and not bad either, a neck of mut- 
ton with onions, if one had a tumbler of whisky- 
punch afterward.” 

Thus communing with himself, he passed 
along, totally inattentive to the solicitations of 
those who usually supplied the humble wants 
of his household, and who now sought to tempt 
him by morsels whose merits lay rather in 
frugality than good cheer. 

As Dalton drew near his own door he heard 
the sounds of a stranger’s voice from within. 
Many a time a similar warning had apprised him 
that some troublesome dun had gained admit- 
tance, and was torturing poor Nelly with his 
importunities ; and on these occasions Peter was 
wont, with more cunning than kindness, to steal 
noiselessly down stairs again, and wait till the 
enemy had evacuated the fortress. Now, how- 
ever, a change had come over his fortunes, and 
with his hat set jauntily on one side, and his 
hands stuck carelessly in his pockets, he kicked 
open the door with his foot, and entered. 

Nelly was seated near the stove^ in conversa- 
tion with a man, who, in evident respect, had 
taken his place near the door, and from which 
he rose, to salute Dalton as he came in. The 
traveler — for such his “ blouse” or traveling- 
frock showed him to be, as well as the knapsack 
and stick at his feet — was a hale, fresh-looking 
man of about thirty ; his appearance denoting an 
humble walk in life, but with nothing that bor- 
dered on poverty. 

“ Herr Brawer, papa — Adolf Brawer,” said 
Nelly, whispering the last words, to remind him 
more quickly of the name. 

“ Servant, sir,” said Dalton, condescending- 
ly ; for the profound deference of the stranger’s 
manner at once suggested to him their relative 
conditions. 

“I kiss your hand,” said Adolf, with the 
respectful salutation of a thorough Austrian, 
while he bowed again with even deeper hu- 
mility. 

The worthy man who was so kind to Frank, 
papa,” said Nelly, in deep confusion, as she saw 
the scrutinizing and almost depreciating look 
with which Dalton regarded him. 

“ Oh the peddler !” said Dalton, at last, as 


207 

the remembrance flashed on him. “ This is the 
peddler, then?” 

“ Yes, papa. He came out of his way, from 
Durlach. just to tell us about Frank ; to say how 
tall he had grown — taller than himself, he says 
— and so good-looking, too. It was so kind in 
him.” 

“ Oh, very kind, no doubt of it — very kind, in- 
deed !” said Dalton, with a laugh of most dubi- 
ous expression. “ Did he say nothing of Frank’s 
debt to him ? Hasn’t that I 0 U, you were 
talking to me about, any thing to say to this visit ?” 

“ He never spoke of it — never alluded to it,” 
cried she, eagerly. 

“Maybe he won’t be so delicate with we,” 
said Dalton.. “Sit down, Mr. Brawer; make 
no ceremony here. We’re stopping in this little 
place till our house is got ready for us. So you 
saw Frank, and he’s looking well?” 

“ The finest youth in the regiment. They 
know him through all Vienna as the ‘ Handsome 
Cadet.’ ” 

“ And so gentle-mannered and unaffected,” 
cried Nelly. 

“ Kind and civil to his inferiors ?” said Dalton ; 
“I hope he’s that ?” 

“ He condescended to know we,” said Brawer, 
“ and call me his friend.” 

“ Well, and maybe ye were,” said Peter, with 
a majestic wave of the hand. “ A real bom 
gentleman, as Frank is, may take a beggar off 
the streets and be intimate with him. Them’s 
my sentiments. Mark what I say, Mr. Brawer, 
and you’ll find, as you go through life, if it isn’t 
true ; good blood may mix with the puddle every 
day of the year and not be the worse of it !” 

“Frank is so grateful to you,” broke in Nelly, 
eagerly ; “ and we are so grateful for all your 
kindness to him !” 

“ What an honor to me ! that he should so 
speak of me!” said the peddler, feelingly — “I, 
who had no claim upon his memory !” 

“ There was a trifle of money between you, I 
think,” said Dalton, ostentatiously; “have you 
any notion of what it is?” 

“ I came not here to collect a debt, Herr von 
Dalton,” said Adolf, rising, and assuming a look 
of almost fierceness in his pride. 

“ Very well — very well ; just as you please,” 
said Dalton, carelessly ; “ it will come with his 
other accounts in the half year; for, no matter 
how liberal a man is to his boys, he’ll be pestered 
with bills after all ! There’s blaguards will be 
lending them money, and teachin’ them extrava- 
gance, just out of devilment, I believe. I know 
well how it used to be with myself when I was 
in old ‘Trinity,’ long ago. There was a little 
chap of the name of Foley, and, by the same 
token, a peddler, too — ” 

“ Oh, papa, he’s going away, and you haven’t 
thanked him yet !” cried Nelly, feelingly. 

“ What a hurry he’s in,” said Dalton, as he 
watched the eager haste with which the peddler 
was now arranging the straps of his knapsack. 

“ Would you not ask him to stay — to dine 
with us ?” faltered Nelly, in a low faint whisper. 


208 


l •*. 


THE DAE TONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


The peddler ? — to dine ?” asked Dalton, 
with a look of astonishment. 

“Frank’s only friend 1” sighed she, mourn- 
fully. 

“ By my conscience, sometimes I don’t know 
if I’m standing on my head or my heels,” cried 
Dalton, as he wiped his brows, with a look of 
utter bewilderment. “ A peddler to dinner ! 
There now — that’s it — more haste worse speed : 
he’s broke that strap in his hurry !” 

“ Shall I sew it for you ?” said Nelly, stooping 
down and taking out her needle as she spoke. 

“Oh, Fraulein, how good of you,” cried 
Adolf; and his whole face beamed with an ex- 
pression of delight. “ How dearly shall I value 
this old pack hereafter.” 

These last words, scarcely muttered above 
his breath, were overheard by Nelly, and a deep 
blush covered her cheeks as she bent over the 
work. 

“ Where’s your own maid ? Couldn’t one of 
the women do it as well ?” cried Dalton, im- 
patiently. “Ye’d not believe, Mr. Brawer, that 
we have the house full of servants this minute ; 
a set of devils feasting and fattening at one’s 
expense.” 

“ Thanks, Fraulein,” said the peddler, as she 
finished ; “you little know how I shall treasure 
this hereafter.” 

“ Ask him to stay, papa,” whispered Nellv 


once more. 





^ \ . * 

«'.-•/ '■ V ^ 


/ ** 



“Sure he’s a peddler!” muttered Dalton, in- 
dignantly. 

“ At least thank him. Tell him you aro 
grateful to him.” 

“ He’d rather I’d buy ten yards of damaged 
calico — that’s the flattery he'd understand best,” 
said Dalton, with a grin. 

“Farewell, Herr von Dalton. Farewell, 
Fraulein !” said Adolf. And with a bow of deep 
respect he slowly retired from the room, while 
Nelly turned to the window to conceal her shame 
and sorrow together. 

“ It was this very morning,” muttered Dalton, 
angrily, “ when I spoke of giving a little dinner 
party, you did nothing but turn up your nose at 
this, that, and t’other. There was nobody good 
enough, forsooth ! There was Monsieur Ratteau, 
the 1 Croupier’ of the tables there, a very nice 
man, with elegant manners, and the finest shirt- 
studs ever I seen, and you wouldn’t hear of him.” 

Nelly heard little of this reproachful speech, 
for, sunk in the recess of the window, she was 
following with her eyes the retiring figure of 
Adolf Brawer. He had just crossed the “ Platz,” 
and ere he turned into a side street he stopped, 
wheeled round, and made a gesture of farewell 
toward the spot where, unseen by him, Nelly 
was still standing. 

“ He is gone !” muttered she, half aloud. 

“Well, God speed him!” rejoined Dalton, 
testily. “I never could abide a peddler.” 



CHAPTER XLV. 

, ■» >- 

“ MADAME DE HEIDENDORF.” 


Kate DaltotPs was a heavy heart, as, seated 
beside her new friend, she whirled along the 
road to Vienna. The scenery possessed every 
attraction of historic interest and beauty. The 
season was the glorious one of an Italian spring. 
There were ancient cities, whose very names 
were like spells to memory. There were the 
spots of earth that Genius has consecrated to 
immortality. There were the scenes were Po- 
etry caught its inspiration, and around which, 
even yet, the mind-created images of fancy seem 
to linger, all to interest, charm and amuse her, 
and yet she passed them without pleasure, al- 
most without notice. 

The splendid equipage in which she traveled 
— the hundred appliances of ease and luxury 
around her — the obsequious, almost servile de- 
votion of her attendants, recalled but one stern 
fact — that she , had sold herself for all these 
things ; that, for them, she had bartered her 
warm affections — her love of father, and sister, 
and brother — the ties of home and of kindred — 
even to the Faith at whose altar she had bent 
her knees in infancy. She had given all for 
greatness. . -i A ’ - * ' 

In all her castle-buildings of a future, her 
own family had formed figures in the picture. 
To render her poor father happy — to surround 
his old age with the comforts he pined after — 
to open to dear Nelly sources of enjoyment in 
the pursuit she loved — to afford Frank the 
means of associating with his comrades of rank 
— to mix in that society for which he longed— 
these, were her objects, and for them - she was 
willing to pay dearly. But now she was not to 
witness the happiness of those she loved ! Al- 
ready the hard conditions of her contract were 
to be imposed. Banishment, first — then, isola- 
tion ; who could say what after ! , ' 

Her traveling companion was scarcely well 
calculated to smooth down the difficulties of this 
conflict in her mind. Madame de Heidendorf 
was the very reverse of Lady Hester. Without 
the slightest pretension to good looks herself, 
she assumed to despise every thing like beauty 
in others, constantly associating its possession 
with the vanity of weak intellects ; she threw a 
kind of ridicule over these “Poor, pretty things,” 
as she Wed to call them, which actually seemed 
to make beauty and folly convertible terms. 
Political intrigue, or to speak more fairly, mis- 
chief-making in state affairs, was her great and 
only passion. By dint of time, patience, consid- 
erable cunning, and a very keen insight into 
O ' 


character, she had succeeded in obtaining the 
intimacy of many of the first statesmen of Eu- 
rope. Many had trusted her with the conduct 
of little matters which the dignity of diplomacy 
could not stoop to. She had negotiated several 
little transactions, opened the way to reconcilia- 
tions, smoothed the road to briberies, and allayed 
the petty qualms of struggling morality, where 
any other than a feminine influence would have 
been coarse and indelicate. 

As a good monarchist, she was always well 
received at the Austrian Court, and in St. Pe- 
tersburg was accustomed to be treated with 
peculiar honor. 

By what amount of compensation, or in what 
shape administered, Midchikoff had secured her 
present services, this true history is unable to 
record ; but that Kate was eminently fortunate 
drawing such a prize in the Lottery of Life, as 
to enter the world under her auspices, were 
facts that she dwelt upon without ceasing. 

Frankness and candor are very charming 
things : they are the very soul of true friendship, 
and the spirit of all affectionate interest; but 
they can be made very disagreeable elements of 
mere acquaintanceship. Such was Madame do 
Heidendorfs. She freely told Kate, that of all 
the great Midchikoff’s unaccountable freaks, his 
intended marriage with herself was the very 
strangest ; and that, to unite his vast fortune 
and high position with mere beauty, was some- 
thing almost incredible. There was a Landgra- 
vine of Hohenhockingen — an Archduchess — a 
“ main gauche ,” of the Austrian house itself — 
there was a grand-daughter of the Empress 
Catharine — with any of whom she could easily 
have opened negotiations for him — all of them 
alliances rich in political influences. Indeed, 
there was another party — she was not at liberty 
to mention the name — and though to be sure she 
was “blind and almost idiotic,” a union with 
her would eventually have made him a “Serene 
Highness.” “ So you see, my dear,” said she. 
in winding up, “ what you have cost him ! 
Not,” added she, after a few seconds’ pause — 
“not, but I have known such marriages turn 
out remarkably well. There was that Prince 
Adalbert of Bohemia, who married the singing 
woman — what’s her name ? — that young creat- 
ure that made such a sensation, at the ‘ Scala’ 
— ‘La Biondina’ they called her. Well, it is 
true, he only lived with her during the Carnival, 
but there she is now, with her handsome house 
in the Bastey, and the prettiest equipage in the 


210 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Prater. I know several similar cases. The 
Arcluluke Max and Prince Ravitzkay — though, 
perhaps, not him, for I believe he sent that poor 
thing away to the mines.” 

“ His wife — to the mines !” gasped Kate, in 
terror. 

“ Don’t be frightened, my dear child,” 
said madame, smiling ; “be a good girl, and 
^you shall have every thing you like. Mean- 
while, try and unlearn all those ‘gaucheries’ you 
picked up with that strange Lady Hester. It 
was a shocking school of manners. All those 
eccentric out-of-the-way people, who lounged in 
and lounged out, talking of nothing but each 
other, utterly ignorant of the great interests that 
are at stake in Europe at this moment. Try, 
therefore and forget that silly coterie altogether. 
When we arrive at Vienna, you will be present- 
ed to the Archduchess Louisa.” 

“And I shall see dear — dear Frank !” burst 
out Kate, with an irrepressible delight. 

“And who is Frank, madame?” said the 
other, proudly drawing herself up. 

“ My brothei' — my only brother — who is in 
the Austrian service.” 

“Is he on the emperor’s staff?” 

“I know nothing- of his position, only that he 
is a cadet. 

“ A cadet, child ! Why, do you know that 
means a common soldier — a creature that 
mounts guard with a musket, or carries a bread- 
bag over its shoulder, through the streets in a 
fatigue-jacket ?” 

“ I care nothing for all that. He may be all 
you say, and twice as humble, but he is my 
brother Frank, still — the playfellow with whom 
I passed the day when — when. I was happy — as 
I shall never be again ! — the fond kind brother, 
whom we were all so proud oi.” 

An expression of scornful compassion on Ma- 
dame de Heidendorf’s features at once stopped 
Kate, and she covered her faee with her hands, 
to hide her shame. 

“ Madame la Princesse,” began the countess 
— for whenever she peculiarly desired to impress 
Kate with her duties, she -always prelaced the 
lesson by her new title — “the past must be for- 
gotten, or you will find yourself totally unable 
to compete with the difficulties of your station. 
There is but one way to make the prince’s mes- 
alliance pardonable, which is by as seldom as pos- 
sible parading its details. If, then, you insist 
upon seeing your brother during our stay at Vien- 
na, it must be in secret. You said something, I 
think, of an old Field-Marshal — a connection ?” 

“My father’s uncle, madame.” 

“Very true. Well, your brother can come 
-frith some letter or message from him : or if 
Nina, vour maid, has no objection, he might pass 
for a lover of hers.” 

“ Madame !” cried Kate indignantly. 

“ I said, if Nina made no objection,” said Ma- 
dame de Heidendorf, as though answering the 
indignant exclamation. “ But these are matters 
for my consideration, madame — at least, if I un- 
derstand the spirit of the prince’s instructions.” 


Some such scene as this, usually closing with 
a similar peroration, formed the conversation of 
the road ; and hour by hour Kate’s courage fell 
lower, as she contemplated all that her elevation 
had cost her. And what a mockery was it, after 
all ! It was true that she journeyed in a carriage 
with all the emblazonry of royalty ; that a group 
of uncovered lackeys attended her as she de- 
scended ; that she was ever addressed by a 
proud title ; a respectful, submissive devotion 
surrounding her at every instant. But, amid 
all this, there was not one look, one word of 
kindness ; nothing of interest or sympathy with 
her solitary grandeur. It mattered little the bars 
of her cell were of gold : it was a prison still. 

With what eagerness did she turn from the 
present, with all its splendor, to think of her for- 
mer life when, wandering among the hills of 
Baden, she had listened to little Hans, or watch- 
ed dear Nelly, as the first gleams of her inten- 
tions began to manifest themselves on a sculp- 
tured group. With what rapture had she heard 
passages that seemed akin to something she had 
felt but could not express ! How had she loved 
the changeful effects of light and shade on a 
landscape, where every tree, or rock, or cliff, 
was familiar to her 1 Oh ! if she could but be 
back again, hopeful, arden* ousting, as she 
once was ! Oh ! if the unef past could be but 
a dream, and she were once more beside her fa- 
ther and Nelly, knowing nothing of that world, 
which in so short a space, had revealed so much 
before her ! Even to those who so lately had 
supplied the place of family to her, all were 
gone, and she was utterly alone ! 

She did not dare to think of George Onslow. 
It seemed to her like a treason to recall his 
memory, and if his image did rise at times be- 
fore her fancy, a burning blush would cover her 
cheak, and a sense of shame would send a throb 
like agony through her heart. The plans and 
projects of her future life she heard without in- 
terest; a vague and confused impression of a 
long journey — halting here and there, to be pre- 
sented to certain great and distinguished persons 
—and finally of her arrival at St. Petersburg, 
were all that she knew. That the prince was 
to join her there, and then, with the emperor’s 
permission, return With her to the south of Eu- 
rope — such were the outlines of a career, over 
which a sinking heart threw a gloomy shadow. 

Madame de Heidendorf was too occupied with 
her own thoughts to notice this despondency ; 
besides that she was incessantly teaching Kate 
some one requisite or other of that rigid etiquette 
which prevailed in the society she was about to 
entet ; the precise titles by which she was to ad- 
dress this or that personage ; how many courte- 
sies to give here, how many reverences there — 
little educational exercises that were always ac- 
companied by some warning admonition of their 
importance to one who like herself had never 
seen any thing like good society, and whose 
breaches of good breeding, would be certain of 
being severely commented on. 

“ Think of the prince, madame,” she would 


211 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


say ; “ think of what he will suffer when they 
repeat any of your transgressions. I am afraid 
there are many humiliations in store for him ! 
And what a step to take at such a moment, 
with these horrible Socialist doctrines abroad — 
these leveling theories of equality and so forth. 
1 hope his majesty the emperor will pardon 
him — I hope he will forgive you.’ 1 ' 1 

This was a favorite speech of hers, and so 


often repeated, that Kate at last began to look 
on herself as a great criminal, and even specu- 
lated on what destiny should befall her if the 
emperor proved unmerciful. 

These were sorry resources to shorten the 
weariness of a journey, and Kate felt a throb of 
pleasure — the first she had experienced — when 
the towers of St. Stephen in the far distance 
announced the approach to Vienna. 



CHAPTER XLVI. 

“ AT VIENNA.” 


The gossiping world of Vienna had a new 
subject for speculation and interest, as a guard 
of honor was seen standing at a large palace 
near the u Hoff, ” and the only information to 
explain the mystery was, that some great diplo- 
matist had arrived the evening before, and 
Heaven knew what wonderful events were in hte 
charge and keeping. A gigantic w chasseur” 
in green and gold, who lounged about the por- 
tal, followed by a great dog — a “ fang-hund,” 
whose silver collar was embossed with many a 
quartering — had engaged the attention of a very 
considerable crowd, which opened from time to 
time to permit the passage of some royal or 
princely equipage. As they thus fell back, a 
chance look would be directed upward to the 
windows of the first floor, and there, passingly, 
they caught glimpses of one whose beauty spon 
formed the theme of every tongue. This was 
Kate Dalton, who, now rested from the fatigue 
of her journey, and dressed in the most becom- 
ing fashion, walked up and down a splendid sa- 
loon, watching to catch every sound, or gazing 
earnestly from the window to catch any sight, 
that might betoken her brother’s coming. \At 
Madame de Heidendorf’s suggestion she had 
written a few lines that morning early to the 
Field-Marshal von Dalton, entreating, as a great 
favor, that he would procure leave for F rank to 
come to her, and pass as much of his time as 
possible with her during her stay in Vienna. 
The note, brief as it was, cost her some trouble; 
she felt that much explanation might be neces- 
sary to state her present position — even who 
she was — and yet this was. a subject she had no 
heart to enter into. Some expressions of affec- 
tionate interest toward himself would also have 
been fitting, but she could not find time for 
them. Frank, and Frank alone, was in her 
thoughts, and she left every thing to the old 
general’s ingenuity, as she concluded her note 
by subscribing herself, u Your affectionate niece, 
Kate Dalton, affianced Princessc dc Midchi- 
kofl'.” 1 • , 


It was the first time that she had written the 
words — the first time that she had ever impress- 
ed that massive seal of many quarterings, so 
royal-looking as it seemed ! It was, also, the 
first time she had ever given an order to one of 
her servants ; and the obsequious bows of the 
groom of the chamber, as he withdrew, were 
all separate and distinct sensations — low, but 
clear knockings of vanity at her heart, to which 
every object around contributed its aid. The 
apartment was splendid : not in that gorgeous 
taste of modern decoration of which she had 
seen so much already, but in a more stately 
fashion, recalling the grandeur of a past age, 
and exhibiting traces of a long line of princely 
occupants. The very portraits along the walls 
had a proud and haughty bearing, and the mas- 
sive chairs glittered in all the blaze of heraldry. 
If she looked out, it was the towers of the 
“ Hoff Bourg” — the home of the Hapsburgs — 
met her eye. If she listened, it was the clank 
of a soldier’s salute broke the stillness ; while 
the dull roll of wheels beneath the arched gate- 
way told of the tide of visitors who came to 
pay their homage. 

If Kate’s heart had been less bound up with 
anxiety to see her brother, the scene beneath 
her window would have afforded her some in- 
terest, as equipage after equipage succeeded — 
now, the quiet splendor of a court chariot ; 
now, the more glaring magnificence of a car- 
dinal’s carriage. Here came the lumbering 
old vehicle of an archbishop, the reverential 
salute of the erow T d indicating the rank of its 
occupant. Then the quick present arms” of 
the sentry told of some general officer ; w'hile, 
at intervals, the “ turn out” of the wdiole guard 
denoted the arrival of a royal prince. Embas- 
sadors and ministers, chamberlains and chan- 
cellors, the dignitaries of the realm, the “ Hautes 
Charges” of the court — all came in crowds to 
present their respects to the Grafinn, for by this 
brief designation was she knowm from one end 
of Europe to the other. Madame de Heiden- 


21-2 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


dorf held a levee, and none would absent them- 
selves from so interesting an occasion. 

It was the eve of a wonderful moment in 
Europe — it was the little lull that preceded the 
most terrific storm that ever overturned thrones 
and scattered dynasties* as these illustrious per- 
sonages were met together to interchange com- 
pliments, to lisp soft phrases of flattery, and dis- 
cuss the high claims of some aspirant for a rib- 
bon or a cross, a “ Red Eagle” or a “ Black” 
one. A few, more far-sighted than the rest, 
saw the cloud not bigger than a man's hand in 
the distance — a few could hear the low rum- 
blings that denoted the brooding hurricane ; but 
even they thought “ the thing would last their 
time,” and thus, with many a pleasant jest they 
chatted over the events of the hour, praised the 
wisdom of kings, and laughed to scorn those 
vulgar teachers whose democratic theories were ! 
just beginning to be whispered about. Some, 
were young, buoyant, and hopeful, ready to 
shed the last drop for the principles they pro- 
fessed ; others, were old, gray-headed men, tried 
servants of monarchy for half a century. But 
all were like-minded, and self-gratulation and 
compliment was the order of the day. Leaving 
them thus to such pleasant converse, where the 
clank of jeweled sw r ords, or the tap of a diamond 
snuff-box, formed the meet accompaniments of 
the themes, we turn once more to her in whose 
fate we are more deeply interested. 

Twice had she rung the bell to ask if the 
messenger had not returned. At last he came; 
but there was “ no answer to her note !” Her 
impatience became extreme. She ordered the 
servant who carried the note to appear before 
her; questioned him closely as to whether he 
had taken it, and the reply he had received. 
A soldier had said, “ Gut!” and shut the door. 
Poor Kate ! It was her first lesson in “ soldier 
laconics,” and to say truly, she did not take it 
well. The “ Princesse de Midchikoff” might 
have been treated with more deference. She 
was passing a mirror as the thought struck her. 
and her mien and air gave support to the belief ; 
ror could she restrain the sense of admiration, 
half tinged with shame, her own beauty evoked. 

“ There is a soldier here, madame,” said a 
servant, “ who has a letter he will not deliver 
except into your own hands.” 

“Admit him — at once,” said she, impatient- 
ly; and as she spoke the soldier stepped for- 
ward, and drawing himself up, carried his hand 
to the salute, while, presenting a letter, he said, 
“From the Field-Marshal von Auersberg.” 

Kate scarcely looked at the bearer, but has- 
tily tore open the square-shaped epistle. 

“ You need not wait,” said she to the serv- 
ant ; and then turning to the letter, read : 

“ Madame la Prjncesse and beloved 
Niece — It was with — to me, of late years — a 
rare satisfaction that I read the not the less 
affectionate that they were polite, lines you 
vouchsafed to inscribe to me, an old and useless, 
but not forgotten servant of an Imperial master. 


Immediately on perusing the aforesaid so-called 
note, I dispatched lv adjutant tr the head- 
quarters of the Franz Karl, to 'detain — no ser- 
vice rules to the con rary li rtnddmg, nor any 
defaults-punition in any wise preventing — a 
day’s furlough, for the Ca‘*et ’On Dalton — ” 

"“ What regiment is your* ?’ said Kate, has- 
tily, to the soldier. 

“ Franz Karl Infanterie ! H ghness,” said 
the youth, respectfully, using the title he had 
heard assumed by the servant. 

“Do you know many of your comrades — 
among the cadets, I mean?” 

“ There are but seven in the battalion, High- 
ness, and I know them all.” 

“Is Yon Dalton an acquaintance of yours ?” 

“I am Von Dalton, Highness,” said the youth, 
while a flush of surprise and pleasure lighted 
up his handsome features. 

“Frank! Frank!” cried she, springing to- 
ward him with open arms ; and ere he could rec- 
ognize her, clasping him round the neck. 

“ Is this real ? Is this a dream ? Are you 
my own sister Kate ?” cried the bov, almost 
choked with emotion. “ And how are you 
here, and how thus ?” and he touched the robe 
of costly velvet as he spoke. 

“ You shall know all, dear, dear Frank ; you 
shall hear every thing w’hen the joy of this 
meeting will let me speak.” 

“ They called you Highness : and how hand- 
some you’ve grown.” 

“Have I, Frank,” said she, pressing him 
down to a seat beside her, while, with hands 
interclasped, they sat gazing on each other. 

“I am only beginning to remember you,” 
said he, slowly. “You never used to wear 
your hair in long ringlets thus. Even your 
figure is changed ; you are taller, Kate.” 

. “It is the mere difference of dress, Frank,” 
said she, blushing with conscious pride. 

“No, no ; you are quite changed. Even as 
I sit here beside you, I feel I know not what of 
shame at my during to be so near — ” 

“So great a lady, you would say, dear 
Frank,” said she, laughing. “Poor boy, if you 
knew — ” She stopped, and then, throwing 
her arms round his neck, went on rapidly — 
“ But, my own dear brother, tell me of your- 
self : are you happy — do you like this service 
— are they kind to you — is Uncle Stephen as 
we hoped he should be ?” 

“My story is soon told, Kate,” said he ; “ I 
am where I was, the day I entered the army. 
I should have been made a corporal — ” 

“ A corporal !” cried Kate, laughing. 

“ A good thing it is, too,” said the youth. 
“ No guards to mount ; no fatigue duty ; neither 
night patrol, nor watch, and four kreutzers 
extra pay.” 

“ Poor dear boy !” cried she, kissing his fore- 
head, while she gazed on him with a compas- 
sionate affection that spoke a whole world of 
emotion. 

“ But tell me of yourself, Kate. Why do 
they call you the princess ?” 


213 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“Because I am married, Frank — that is, I am 
betrothed — and will soon be married.” 

“ And when did this occur? Tell me every 
thing,” cried he, impatiently. 

“You shall know all. dearest Frank. You 
have heard how Lady Hester Onslow carried mp 
away with her to Italy. Nelly has told you how 
we were living in Florence — in what splendor 
and festivity. Our palace frequented by all 
the great and distinguished of every country — 
French and German, and Spanish and Russian.” 

“I hate the Russians; but go on,” said the 
boy, hastily. 

“ But why hate the Russians, Frank?” asked 
she, reddening, as she spoke. 

“ They are false-hearted and treacherous. See 
how they have driven the Circassians into a war, 
to massacre them; look how they are goading 
on the Poles to insurrection. Ay, they say that 
they have emissaries at this moment in Hungary 
on the same errand. I detest them.” 

“This may be their state policy, Frank, but 
individually — •” 

“They are no better; Walstein knows them 
well.” 

“ And who is Walstein, Frank ?” 

“ The finest fellow in the service ; the one I 
would have wished yOu married to, Kate, above 
all the world. Think of a Colonel of Hussars at 
eight-and-twenty, so handsome, so brave, and 
such a rider. You shall see him, Kate !” 

“But it is too late, Frank,” said she, laugh- 
ing ; “you forget it’s too late !” 

“Ah! so it is,” sighed the boy, seriously. 
“ I often feared this,” muttered he, after a 
pause. “ Nelly’s letters told me as much, and 
I said to myself, ‘ It will be too late.’ ” 

“ Then Nelly has told you all, perhaps ?” 
said she. - 

“ Not every thing, nor, indeed, any thing at 
all very distinctly. I could only make out what 
seemed to be her own impressions, for they ap- 
peared mere surmises.” 

“ And of what sort were they?’’ asked Kate, 
curiously. 

“ Just what you would suspect from her. 
Everlasting fears about temptations, and trials, 
and so forth, continually praying that your heart 
might resist all the flatteries about you. The 
dd story about humility. I thought to myself, 
* If the lesson be not more needful to Katd than 
to me, she runs no great risk, after all !’ for I 
was also warned about the seductions of the 
world ! a poor cadet, with a few kreutzers a 
day, told not to be a Sybarite ! Returning wet 
through from a five hours’ patrol, to burnish 
accoutrements in a cold, damp barrack, and then 
exhorted against the contamination of low soci- 
ety, when all around me were cursing the hard- 
ships they lived in, and execrating the slavery 
of the service!”- 

“Our dearest Nelly knows so little of the 
world,” said Kate, as she threw a passing 
glance at herself in the mirror, and arranged the 
fall of a deep fringe of gold-lace which was iast- 
eued in her hair. 


“ She knows nothing of it,” said the boy, ad- 
justing his sword-knot. “ She thought our Hus- 
sars wore white dolmans, and carried straight 
swords like the Cuirassiers.” 

“ And the dear, simple creature asked me, in 
one of her lettei’s, if I ever wore wild flowers in 
my hair now, as I used to do, long ago,” said 
Kate, stealing another glance at the glass. 
“ Flowers are pretty things in the head when 
rubies make the pinks, and the dewdrops are all 
diamonds. - ” 

Frank looked at her as she said this, and for 
the first time saw the proud elation her features 
assumed when excited by a theme of vanity. 

“ You are greatly changed, dearest Kate,” 
said he, thoughtfully. 

“Is it for the worse, Frank?” said she, half 
eoquettishly. 

“ Oh ! as to beauty, you are a thousand times 
handsomer,” cried the boy, with enthusiasm. 
“I know 7 not how 7 , but every expression seems, 
heightened, every feature more elevated ; your 
air and gesture, your very voice, that once I 
thought was music itself, is far sweeter and 
softer.” 

“What a flatterer!” said she, patting his 
cheek. ’ > ■ 

“ But then, Kate,” said he, more gravely, 
“ have these fascinations cost nothing ? Is your 
heart as simple? Are your affections as pure? 
Ah ! you sigh — and what a heavy sigh, too. 
Poor, poor Kate !” 

And she laid her head upon his shoulder, 
w 7 hile the heaving swell of her bosom told w 7 hat 
sorrow the moment was costing her. 

“Nelly, then, told you of my betrothal?” 
whispered she, in a weak, faint voice. 

“No; I knew 7 nothing of that. She told me 
all about the life you were leading ; the great 
people w 7 ith whom you were intimate ; and, bit 
by bit, a hint, some little allusion would creep 
out as to the state of your heart. Perhaps she 
never meant it, or did not know it, but I re- 
marked, in reading her letters over and over — 
they w 7 ere the solace of many a weary hour — • 
that, one name recurred so often in connection 
with yours, you must have frequently referred to 
him yourself, for in each extract from your let- 
ters I saw the name.” 

“ This was strange. It must have been 
through inadvertence,” said she, musingly. “I 
thought I had scarcely spoken of him.” 

“See how your hand told truth, even against 
your consciousness,” said he, smiling. 

Kate made no reply, but sat deep in thought. 

“ And is he here? When shall I see him?” 
asked Frank, impatiently. 

“ No, Frank. He is in Italy ; he was detained 
there by business of importance. Besides, it is not 
etiquette that we should travel together. When 
the emperor’s permission has been obtained — ” 

“What emperor?” asked Frank, in aston- 
ishment. 

“ Our emperor — the czar.” 

“ What have you, an English girl born, to do 
with the czar ?” 


214 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ The prince, my future husband, is his sub- 
ject.” 

“ Why, there is no end to this mystification,” 
cried the boy, impatiently. “ How can an En- 
glish soldier be a Russian prince?” 

“ I don’t understand you, Frank. Prince 
Midchikoff is a Russian by birth.” 

“ So that you are married to a Russian,” said 
he, in a voice of deep emotion, “and all this 
time I have been fancying my brother-in-law an 
Englishman. I thought it was this same George 
—George Onslow.” 

A heavy dull sound startled him as he said 
this. It was Kate, who had fallen back, faint- 
ing, on the sofa. It was long before, with all 
Frank’s efforts at restoration, that she came to 
herself; and, even when consciousness returned, 
tears flowed from her eyes and coursed down her 
cheeks copiously, as she lay speechless and mo- 
tionless. 

“My own poor Kate, my poor, dear sister,” 
were all that Frank could say, as he held her 
cold, clammy hand within his own ; and, with 
an almost breaking heart, gazed on her pale 
features. It was so like death ! “ And might 

not death be better?” thought he, as he trav- 
eled over in his mind the story, of whose secret 
he was now possessed. How differently did he 


judge all Nelly’s counsels now ! In what a 
changed spirit did he think of that wisdom 
which, but a few minutes back, he had sneered 
at! “And so it is,” muttered he. “If we, 
who are born to humble fortunes, would cher- 
ish ambition, we must pay for them with our 
hearts’ blood. Nelly was right ; she often 
said so. Over and over again did she tell mo 
‘ Goodness is the only safe road to greatness.’ 
Oh, that one so beautiful as this should have 
missed the path !” And, sobbing violently, 
he kissed her hand, and watered it with his 
tears. 

“Frank, you are with me — you’ll not leave 
me,” said she, faintly, as she opened her eyes 
and stared in bewilderment around her. “I re- 
member every thing, now — every thing,” said 
she, w r ith an emphasis on the last word. “ This 
is Vienna : 1 recollect all. Ring that bell, 
Frank : let Nina come to me, but don’t go 
away; be sure not to go.” 

Nina soon made her appearance, and with a 
look of half-surprise, half-admiration at the hand- 
some soldier, assisted Kate to arise. 

“I’ll be back presently, Frank,” said she, 
with a faint smile, and left the room. And the 
youth, overcome by emotion, sat down and bur- 
ied his face in his hands. 


/ 



CHAPTER XLVII. 


PRIESTLY COUNSELS. 


Frank was so full of his own reflections, that 
he almost forgot his sister’s absence ; nor did 
he notice how the time went over, when he 
heard the sound of voices and the noise of a door 
closing ; and, on looking up, perceived a hand- 
some man, something short of middle-aged, who, 
dressed in the deep black of a priest, wore a 
species of blue silk-collar, the mark of a religious 
order. His features were perfectly regular, and 
their expression the most bland and courteous it 
was possible to imagine. There was a serene 
dignity, too, in his gait, as he came forward, 
that showed how thoroughly at home he felt on 
the soft carpet, and in the perfumed atmosphere 
of a drawing-room. 

Bowing twice to Frank, he saluted him with 
a smile, so gentle and so winning, that the boy 
almost felt as if they had been already ac- 
quainted. 

“I have come,” said the priest, “to pay my 
respects to the Princesse de Midchikoff, and, if 
my eyesight is not playing me, false, I have the 
honor to recognize her brother.” 


Frank blushed with pleasure as he bowed an 
assent. 

“ May I anticipate the kindness— which your 
sister would not refuse me,” continued he, “and 
introduce myself? You may, perhaps, have 
heard of the Abbe d’Esmonde?” <- 

“Repeatedly,” cried Frank, taking the prof- 
fered hand in his own. “ Nelly spoke of you in 
almost every letter. You were always so kind 
to Kate in Italy.” 

“ How amply am I recompensed, were not 
the pleasure of knowing Miss Dalton a sufficient 
reward in itself. It is rare to find that combi- 
nation of excellence which can command all the 
homage of fashion, and yet win the approbation 
of a poor priest.” 

There was a humility deep enough to be al- 
most painful, in the tone in which these words 
were uttered ; but Frank had little time to dwell 
on them, for already the abbe had taken a seat 
on the sofa beside him, and was deep in the dis- 
cussion of all Kate’s attractions and merits. 

There was a sincerity, an ardor of admiration, 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 215 


chastened only by the temper of his sacred char- 
acter, that delighted the boy. If allusion were 
made to her beauty, it was only to heighten the 
praise he bestowed on her for other gifts, and 
display the regulated action of a mind proof 
against every access of vanity. Her correct 
judgment, her intuitive refinement, the extreme 
delicacy of her sensibilities — these were the 
themes he dwelt upon, and Frank felt that they 
must be rare gifts indeed, when the very descrip- 
tion of them could be so pleasurable.. 

From what the abbe said, so far from her 
marriage with the great Russian being a piece 
of fortune, she had but to choose her position 
amid the first houses of Europe. “ It was true,” 
he added, “ that the ‘ Midchikoff ’s’ wealth was 
like royalty, and as he united to immense fortune 
great claims of personal merit, the alliance had 
every thing to recommend it.” 

“And this is so?” cried Frank, eagerly. 
“ The prince is a fine fellow ?” 

“ Generous and munificent to an extent almost 
fabulous,” said D’Esmonde, who seemed rather 
to resume his own train of thought, than reply 
to Frank's question. “ The splendor of his life 
has already canonized a proverb.” 

“ Rut his temper — his manner — his disposi- 
tion?” 

“Like all his countrymen, he is reserved, al- 
most cold to strangers ; his intimates, however, 
talk of him as frankness and candor itself. Even 
on political themes, where Russians are usually 
most guarded, he gives his opinions freely, and 
manfully, and strange enough, too, with a lib- 
erality which, though common enough in our 
country, must be very rare indeed in his.” 

“ That is strange !” said Frank, thoughtfully. 

‘“ Yes,” said D’Esmonde, dropping into the 
tone of one who insensibly poured out his inmost 
thoughts in soliloquizing — “ yes ! he feels what 
■we all do ! that this state of things can not last 
— disparity of condition may become too palpable 
and too striking. The contrast between affluence 
and misery may display itself too offensively!, 
Men may one day or other refuse to sign a re- 
newal of the bond of servitude, and then — and 
then — ” . ' ■ ■ ~ 

“A servile war, I suppose,” cried Frank, 
quietly; “but the troops will always give them 
a lesson.” . \ 

“Do you think so, my dear young friend?” 
said the abbe, affectionately; “do you not 
rather think that soldiers will begin to learn 
that . they are citizens, and that, when forging 
fetters for others, the metal can be fashioned 
into chains for themselves?” 

“But they have an oath,” said the boy; 
“they’ve sworn to their allegiance.” 

“ Very true, so they have ; but what is the 
oath? — the one-half of a compact, which can 
not be supposed binding when the other half be 
broken. Let the social policy of a Government 
fail in its great object — the happiness of a peo- 
ple; let a whole nation gradually cease to enjoy 
the advantages, for the sake oi which they as- 


sumed the responsibilities and ties of family; 
let them day by day fall lower in the scale of 
civilization and comfort, and after surrendering 
this privilege, to-day, and that, to-morrow, at 
last take their stand on the very verge of the 
precipice, with nothing but abject slavery be- 
neath ! what would you say of the order to 
charge then with the bayonet, even though the 
formality of a recruiting oath should seem to 
warrant the obedience?” 

“I’d do it, if I was ordered,” said Frank, 
sternly. 

“ I don’t think you would,” said D’Esmonde, 
smiling. “ I read your nature differently. I 
can trace even in the very flashing of your eye, 
this instant, the ambition of a bold and energetic 
spirit, and that when the moment came you 
would embrace the losing cause, with all its 
perils, rather than stand by tyranny, in all its 
strength. Besides, remember, this is not the 
compact under which you entered the service, 
although it might, under certain peculiar cir- 
cumstances, appeal to your sense of duty. An 
army is not — at least it ought not to be — a 
‘ Gendarmerie.’ Go forth to battle against the 
enemies of your country— carry the flag of your 
Fatherland into the plains of France — plant the 
double eagle once more in the Place de Carousal 
— even aggressive War has its glorious com- 
pensations in deeds of chivalry and heroism — 
but, here is the princesse,” said the abbe, ris- 
ing, and advancing courteously toward her. 

“ The Abbe d’Esmonde !” cried Kate, with 
an expression of delight, as she held out her 
hand, which the priest pressed to his lips with 
all the gallantry of a courtier. “ How pleasant 
to see the face of a friend in this strange land,” 
said she. “ Abbe, this is my brother Frank, of 
whom you have heard me talk so often.” 

“ We are acquaintances already,” said D’Es- 
monde, passing his arm within the soldier’s ; 
“ and, albeit our coats are not of the same color, 
I think many of our principles are.” 

A few moments saw him seated between the 
brother and sister on the sofa, recounting the 
circumstances of his journey, and detailing, for 
Kate’s amusement, the latest news of Florence. 

“ Lady Hester is much better in health, and 
spirits, too,” said the abbe ; “the disastrous cir- 
cumstances of fortune would seem to have taken 
a better turn ; at least, it is probable that Sir 
Stafford’s losses will be comparatively slight. 
I believe her satisfaction on this head arises 
entirely from feeling that no imputation of altered 
position can now be alleged as the reason for 
her change of religion.” 

“ And has she done this ?” asked Kate, with 
a degree of anxiety ; for she well knew on what 
feeble grounds Lady Hester’s convictions were 
usually built. 

“ Not publicly ; she waits for her arrival at. 
Rome, to make her confession at the shrine of 
St. John of Lateran. Her doubts, however, 
have all been solved — her reconciliation is per- 
fect.” 


216 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ Is she happy ? Has she found peace of 
mind at last?” asked Kate, timidly. 

“On this point I can speak with confidence,” 
said D’Esmonde, warmly ; and at once entered 
into a description of the pleasurable impulse a 
new train of thoughts and impressions had given 
to the exhausted energies of a “ fine lady’s” life. 
It was so far true, indeed, that for some days 
back she had never known a moment of ennui. 
Surrounded by sacred emblems and a hundred 
devices of religious association, she appeared to 
herself as if acting a little poem of life, wherein 
a mass of amiable qualities, of which she knew 
nothing before, were all developing themselves 
before her ! and what between meritorious 
charities, saintly intercessions, visits to shrines, 
and decorations of altars, she had not an instant 
unoccupied ; it was one unceasing round of em- 
ployment; and with prayers, bouquets, lamps, 
confessions, candles, and penances, the day was 
even too short for its dutie.su 

The little villa of La Rocca was now a holy 
edifice. The drawing-room had become an 
oratory ; a hollow-cheeked “ Seminariste,” from 
Como, had taken the place of the Maestro di 
Casa. The pages wore a robe like Acolytes ; 
and even Alfred Jekyl began to fear that a cos- 
tume was in preparation for himself, from certain 
measurements that, he had observed taken with 
regard to his figure. 

“My time is up,” said Frank, hastily, as he 
arose to go awdy. 

“You are not about to leave me, Frank?” 
said Kate., \ 

“Yes, I must; my leave was only till four 
o’clock, as the Field-Marshal’s note might have 
shown you ; but I believe you threw it into the 
fire before you finished it.” 

“ Did I, really ? I remember nothing of that. 
But, stay, and I will write to him. I’ll say that 
I have detained you.” ' •> 

“ But the service, Kate, dearest ! My ser- 
geant — my over-lieutenant — my captain — what 
will they say ? I may have to pass three days 
in irons for the disobedience.” 

“ Modern chivalry has a dash of the tread- 
mill through it,” said D’Esmonde, sarcastically; 
and the boy’s cheek flushed as he heard it. 
The priest, however, had already turned away, 
and, walking into the recess of a window, left 
the brother and sister free to talk unmolested. 

“ I scarcely like him, Kate,” whispered 
Frank. 

“ You scarcely know him yet,” said she, with 
a smile. “ But w T hen can you come again to 
me — to-morrow, early?” 

“I fear not. We have a parade and a field- 
inspection, and then 4 rapport’ at noon.” 

“Leave it to me, then, dear Frank,” said 
she, kissing him; “I must try if I can not suc- 
ceed with ‘ the Field,’ better than you have 
done.” ‘ 

“ There’s the recall-bugle,” cried the boy, in 
terror ; and, snatching up his cap, he bounded 
from the room at once. 


44 A severe service — at least one of rigid dis 
cipline,” said D’Esmonde, with a compassion- 
ating expression of voice ; “ it is hard to say, 
whether it works for good or evil, repressing 
the development of every generous impulse, as 
certainly as it restrains the impetuous passions 
of youth.” 

44 True,” said Kate, pointedly ; 44 there would 
seem something of priestcraft in their regime. 
The individual is nothing, the service every 
thing.” 

“ Your simile lacks the great element — fobce 
of resemblance, madam,” said D'Esmonde, with 
a half smile. 44 The soldier has not, like the 
priest, a grand sustaining hope — a glorious ob- 
ject before him. He knows little or nothing 
of the cause in which his sword is drawn — his 
sympathies may even be against his duty. The 
very boy who has just left us — noble-hearted 
fellow that he is — what strange wild notions of 
liberty has he imbibed ! how opposite are all his 
speculations to the stern calls of the duty he has 
sworn to discharge 3” 

“ And does he dare — ” 

“ Nay, madam, there was no indiscretion on 
his part ; my humble walk in life has taught 
me, that if I am excluded from all participation 
in the emotions which sway my fellow-men, I 
may at least study them as they arise, watch 
them in their infancy, and trace them to their 
fruit of good or evil. Do not fancy, dear lady, 
that it is behind the grating of the confessional 
only, that we read men’s secrets. As the phy- 
sician gains his knowledge of anatomy from the 
lifeless body, so do we learn the complex struc- 
ture of the human heart in the death-like stillness 
of the cell, with the penitent before us ! But 
yet all the knowledge thus gained is but a step 
to something further. It is while reading the 
tangled story of the heart — its struggles — its 
efforts — the striving after good, here — the in- 
evitable fall back to evil, there— the poor, weak 
attempt at virtue — the vigorous energy of vice 
— it is hearing this sad tale from day to day — 
learning how, in what are called the purest 
natures, how deep the well of corruption lies, 
and that not one generous thought, one noble’ 
aspiration, or one holy desire rises unalloyed by 
some base admixture of worldly motive. It is 
thus armed we go forth into the world, to fight 
against the wiles and seductions of life ! How 
can we be deceived by the blandishments that 
seduce others ? What avail to ns those preten- 
tious displays of self-devotion — those sacrifices 
of wealth — those proud acts of munificence 
which astonish the world, but of whose secret 
springs we are conversant? What wonder, 
then, il I have read the artless nature of a boy 
like that, or see in him the springs of an ambi- 
tion he knows not of himself? Nay, it would 
be no rash boasEto say that I have deciphered 
more complicated inscriptions than those upon 
his heart. I have traeed some upon his sis- 
ter’s !” The last three words he uttered with 
a slow 7 and deep enunciation, leaving a pause 


217 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


between each, and bending on her a look of in- 
tense meaning. 

Kate’s cheek became scarlet, then pale, and 
a second time she flushed, till neck and shoul- 
ders grew crimson together. - ' 

You have no confidences to make me, my 
dear, dear child,” said D’Esmonde, as, taking 
her hand, he pressed her down on a sofa beside 
him. “Your faltering lips have nothing to ar- 
ticulate — no self-repinings, no sorrows to utter; 
for I know them all !” He paused for a few 
seconds, and then resumed : “ Nor have you to 
fear me as a stern or a merciless judge. Where 
there is a sacrifice, there is a blessing !” 

Kate held down her head, but her> bosom 
heaved, and her frame trembled with emotion. 

“ Your motives,” resumed he, “would dignify 
even a rasher course. I know the price at 
which you have bartered happiness — not your 
own only, but another’s with it!” 

She sobbed violently, and pressed her hands 
over her face. 

“Poor, poor fellow!” cried he, as if borne 
away by an impulse of candor that would brook 
no concealment, “how I grieved to see him, 
separated, as we were, by the wide and yawning 
gulf between us, giving himself up to the very 
recklessness of despair, now cursing the heart- 
less dissipation in which his life was lost, now 
accusing himself of golden opportunities neg- 
lected, bright moments squandered, petty mis- 
understandings exaggerated into dislikes* the 
passing coldness of the moment exalted into a 
studied disdain ! We were almost strangers to 
each other before — nay, I half fancied that he 
kept aloof from me. Probably” — here D’Es- 
monde smiled with a bland dignity — “ probably 
he called me a ‘ Jesuit’ — that name so full of 
terror to good Protestant ears ; but, on his sick 
bed, as he lay suffering and in solitude, his fac- 
ulties threw off the deceptive influences of 
prejudice ; he read me then more justly ; he 
saw that I was his friend. Hours upon hours 
have we passed talking of you ; the theme 
seemed to give a spring to an existence from 
which, till then, all zest of life had been with- 
drawn. I never before saw as much of passion, 
with a temper so just and so forgiving. He 
needed no aid of mine to read your motives 
truly. ‘ It is not for herself that she has done 
this,’ were words that he never ceased to utter. 
He knew well the claims that family would 
make on you, the heart-rending appeals from 
those you could not but listen to ! ‘ Oh ! if I 

but pould think that she will not forget me ; 
that some memory of me will still linger in her 
mind !’ this was his burning prayer, syllabled 
by lips parched by the heat of fever; and when 
I told him to write to you — ” 

“To write to me!” cried she, catching his 
arm, while her cheeks trembled with intense 
agony, “you did not give such counsel?” , 

“Not alone that,” said D’Esmonde, calmly, 
“but promised that I would myself deliver the 
letter into your hands. Is martyrdom less 


glorious that a cry of agony escapes the victim, 
or that his limbs writhe as the flame wraps 
round them ? Is self-sacrifice to be denied the 
sorrowful satisfaction to tell its woes ? I bade 
him write, because it would be good for him 
and for you alike.” 

She stared eagerly, as if to ask his meaning. 

“ Good for both,” repeated he, slowly. “ Love 
will be, to him, a guide-star through life, lead- 
ing him by paths of high and honorable ambi- 
tion ; to you, it will be the consolation of hours 
that even splendor will not enliven. Believe 
me,” here he raised his voice to a tone of com- 
mand and authority — “ believe me that negation 
is the lot of all. Happiest they who only suffer 
in their affections ! And what is the purest of 
all love ? Is it not that the devotee feels for 
his protecting saint that sense of ever-present 
care — that consciousness of a watching, unceas- 
ing affection, that neither slumbers nor wearies 
— following us in our joy, beside us in our af- 
flictions — some humble effigy, some frail repre- 
sentation is enough to embody this conception, 
but its essence lies in the heart of hearts ! Such 
a love as this — pure, truthful, and enduring — 
may elevate the humblest life into heroism, and 
throw a sun-gleam over the dreariest path of 
destiny. The holy bond that unites the grovel- 
ing nature below, with glory above, has its 
humble type on earth in those who, separated 
by fate, are together in affection ! I bade him 
write to you a few lines ; he was too weak for 
more ; indeed, his emotion almost made the last 
impossible. I pressed him, however, to do it, 
and pledged myself to place them in your hands ; 
my journey hither had no other object.” As he 
spoke, he took forth a small sealed packet and 
gave it to Kate, whose hands trembled as she 
took it. 

“1 shall spend some days in Vienna,” said he, 
rising to take leave; “pray let me have a part 
of each of them with you. I have much to say 
to you, and of other matters than those we have 
now spoken.” And kissing her hand with a 
respectful devotion, the abbe withdrew, with- 
out ever once raising his eyes toward her. 

Sick with sorrow and humiliation — for such 
she acutely felt — Kate Dalton rose and retired 
to her room. “ Tell Madame de Heidendorf, 
Nina,” said she, “that I feel tired to-day, and 
beg she will excuse my not appearing at din- 
ner.” J 

Nina courtesied her obedience, but it was 
easy to see that the explanation by no means 
satisfied her, and that she was determined to 
know something more of the origin of her young 
mistress’s indisposition. 

“ Madame knows that the archduke is to dino 
here.” 

“I know it,” said Kate, peevishly, and as if 
desirous of being left in quiet. 

Nina again courtesied, but in the brilliant 
flashing of her dark eyes it was plain to mark 
the consciousness that some secret was with- 
held from her. The “Soubrette” class arc in- 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


218 

stinetive readers of motives — “their only books 
are ‘ ladies' looks” — but they con them to per- 
fection. It was then with a studied pertinacity 
that Nina proceeded to arrange drawers and 
fold dresses, and fifty other similar duties, the 
discharge of which she saw was torturing her 
mistress. 

“ I should wish to be alone, Nina, and undis- 
turbed,” said Kate, at last, her patience being 
entirely exhausted. 

Nina made her very deepest reverence, and 
withdrew. 


Kate waited for a few seconds, till all sound 
of her retiring steps had died away, then arose, 
and locked the door. 

She was alone; the packet which the abbo 
had delivered lay on the table before her; she 
bent down over it, and wept. The utter misery 
of sorrow is only felt where self-reproach min- 
gles with our regrets. All the pangs of other 
misfortunes are light in comparison with this. 
The irrevocable past was her own work; she 
knew it, and cried, till her very heart seemed 
bursting. 


; : 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


SECRETS OF HEAD AND HEART. 


v; 


I must ask of my reader to leave this cham- 
ber, where, overwhelmed by her sorrows, poor 
Kate poured out her grief in tears, and follow 
me to a small but brilliantly-lighted apartment, 
in which a little party of four persons was seat- 
ed, discussing their wine, and enjoying the 
luxury of their cigars. Be not surprised when 
we say that one of the number was a lady. 
Madame de Heidendorf, however, puffed her 
weed with all the zest of a smoker ; the others 
were the Archduke Ernest, a plain, easy-tem- 
pered looking man, in the gray undress of an 
Austrian general; the Foreign Minister, Count 
Norinberg; and our old acquaintance, the Abbe 
d’Esmonde. 1 

The table, besides the usual ornaments of a 
handsome dessert, was covered with letters, 
journals, and pamphlets, with here and there a 
colored print in caricature of some well-known 
political personage. Nothing could be more 
easy and unconstrained than the air and bear- 
ing of the guests. The archduke sat with his 
uniform coat unbuttoned, and resting one leg 
upon a chair before him; the minister tossed 
over the books, and brushed off the ashes of his 
cigar against the richly-damasked table cloth ; 
while even the abbe seemed to have relaxed 
the smooth urbanity of his face into a look of 
easy enjoyment. Up to this moment the con- 
versation had been general, the principal topics 
being the incidents of the world of fashion, the 
flaws and frivolities, the mishaps and misadven- 
tures of those whose names were familiar to his 
Imperial Highness, and in those vicissitudes he 
took the most lively interest. These, and a 
stray anecdote of the turf in England, were the 


only subjects he cared for, hating politics and 
state affairs with a most cordial detestation. 
His presence, however, was a compliment that 
the court always paid “ the countess,” and he 
submitted to his turn of duty manfully. 

Deeply involved in the clouds of his cigar- 
smoke, and even more enveloped in the misty 
regions of his own reveries, he sipped his wine 
in silence, and heard nothing of the conversation 
about him.' 

The minister was then perfectly free to 
discuss the themes most interesting to him, 
and learn whatever he could of the state of 
public opinion in Italy. 

“ You are quite right, abbe,” Said he. with 
a sage shake of the head. “ Small concessions, 
petty glimpses of liberty, only give a zest for more 
enlarged privileges. There is nothing like a 
good flood of popular anarchy for creating a 
wholesome disgust to freedom. There must 
be excesses !” 

r ^ / , 

“ Precisely so, sir,” said the abbe. “ There 
can be no question of an antidote if there has 
been no poisoning.” 

“Ay; but may not this system be pushed 
too far ? Is not his Holiness already doing 
so ?” ' 

“ Some are disposed to think so ; but I am 
not of the number,” said D’Esmonde. “ It is 
necessary that he should himself be convinced 
that the system is a bad one ; and there is no 
mode of conviction so palpable as by a personal 
experience. Now, this, he will soon have. As 
yet, he does not see that every step in political 
freedom is an advance toward the fatal heresy 
that never ceases its persecutions of the Church 


THE DALTONS; OR, T 

Not that our Revolutionists care for Protestant- 
ism or the Bible either ; but., by making com- 
mon cause with those who do, See what a large 
party in England becomes interested for their 
success. The, right of judgment conceded in 
religious matters, how can you withhold it in 
political ones ? The men who brave the Church 
will not tremble before a Cabinet. Now the 
Pope sees nothing of this ; he even mistakes the 
flatteries offered to himself for testimonies of 
attachment to the Faith, and all those kneeling 
hypocrites who implore his blessing he fancies 
are faithful children of Rome. He must be 
awakened from this delusion ; but yet none save 
himself can dispel it. He is obstinate and 
honest.” > , 

If the penalty were to be his own alone, it 
Were not so much matter,” -said the minister ; 
“ but it will cost a revolution.” 

“ Of course it) will ; but there is time enough 
to prepare for it.” 

u The state of the 1 Milanais’ is far from sat- 
isfactory,” said the minister, gravely. 

“ I know that; but a revolt of a prison always 
excuses double irons,” said D’Esmonde, sar- 
castically. - • . 

“ Tell him of Sardinia^ abbe,” said Madame 
de Heidendorf. 

“Your real danger is from that quarter,” 
said D’Esmonde. “There is a growing spirit 
of independence there — a serious desire for free 
institutions, wide apart from the wild democracy 
of the rest of Italy. This is a spirit you can 
not crush ; but you can do better — you can 
corrupt it. Genoa is a hotbed of Socialist doc- 
trine; the wildest fanaticism of the ‘Reds’ is 
there triumphant, and our priests are manfully 
aiding the spread of such opinions. They have 
received orders to further these notions ; and it 
is thus, and by the excesses consequent on this, 
you will succeed in trampling down that moder- 
ated liberty which is the curse that England is 
destined to disseminate among us. It is easy 
enough to make an excited people commit an 
act of indiscretion, and then, with public opinion 
on your side — ” 

“How I detest that phrase,” said Madame 
de Heidendorf; “it is the lowest cant of the 
day.” 

“ The thing it represents is not to be despised, 
madame,” said the abbe. 

“ These are English notions,” said shesneer- 

togiy- 

“They will be Russian ones, yet, depend 
upon it, madame.” 

“I’d rather know what a few men of vast 
fortune, like Midchikoff, for instance, think, than 
have the suffrages of half the greasy mobs of 
Europe.” 

“ By the way,” said the minister, “ what is 
he doing ? Is it true that he is coquetting with 
Liberals and Fourierists, and all that ? ’ 

“For the moment he is,” said Madame de 
Heidendorf; “and two or three of the populari- 
ty-seeking sovereigns have sent him their deco- 


LREE ROADS IN LIFE. 219 

rations, and if he does not behave better he will 
be ordered home.” 

“He is of great use in Italy,” said the min- 
ister. 

“ True ; but he must not abuse his position.” 

“ He is just vain enough to lend himself to a 
movement,” said D’Esmonde ; “ but he shall be 
watched.” 

These last words were very significantly ut- 
tered. 

“ You know the princess, abbe ?” asked the 
minister, with a smile ; and another smile, as 
full of meaning, replied to the question. 

“ She’s pretty, a’n’t she ?” asked the arch- 
duke. 

“ Beautiful is the word, sir ; but if your im- 
perial highness would like to pass judgment 
personally, I’ll beg of her to come down to the 
drawing-room.” , 

“ Of all things, most kind of you to make the 
offer,” said he, rising and arranging his coat 
and sword-knot into some semblance of pro- 
priety while Madame de Heidendorf rang the bell, 
and dispatched a messenger to Kate with the 
request. 

Nina was overjoyed at the commission intrust- 
ed to her. Since Kate’s peremptory order, she 
had not ventured to intrude herself upon her; 
but now, armed with a message, she never hesi- 
tated about invading the precincts of that silent 
chamber, at whose door she often stood in doubt 
and speculation. 

She tapped gently at the door : there was 
no answer. A second summons was alike un- 
replied to, and Nina bent down her head to 
listen. There were long-drawn breathings, 
like sleep, but a heavy sigh told that the mo- 
ments were those of waking sorrow. Cautious- 
ly turning the handle of the door, without noise, 
she opened it and passed in. The room was 
shrouded in a dim half-light, and it was not till 
after the lapse of some seconds that Nina could 
distinguish the form of her young mistress, as 
with her head buried in her hands she sat be- 
fore a table on which lay an open letter. 

So absorbed was Kate in grief, that she heard 
nothing, and Nina approached her slowly, till at 
last she stood directly behind her, fixedly re- 
garding the heaving figure, the disheveled hair, 
and the trembling hands, that seemed to clutch 
with eagerness some object within their grasp. 
Kate suddenly started, and pushing back her 
hair from her eyes, seemed as if trying to col- 
lect her wandering thoughts. Then, unclasp- 
ing a case, she placed a miniature before her, 
and contemplated it attentively. Nina bent over 
her till she almost touched her in her eagerness. 
Had any one been there to have seen her feat- 
ures at the moment, they would have perceived 
the traits of intense and varied passion, surprise, 
and rage, and jealousy, all struggling for the 
mastery. Her dark skin grew almost livid, and 
her black eyes glowed with anger, while with a 
force like convulsion she pressed her hands to 
her heart, as if to calm its beatings. A sea of 


220 THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


stormy passions was warring within her, and in 
her changeful expression might be seen the con- 
flict of her resolves. At last, she appeared to 
have decided, for, with noiseless steps, she grad- 
ually retreated toward the door, her eyes all 
the while steadily fixed on her mistress. 

It seemed to require no slight effort to repress 
the. torrent of rage within her, for even at the 
door she stood irresolute for a moment,'- and, 
then, softly opening it, withdrew. . Once out- 
side, her pent-up passions found vent, and she 
sobbed violently. Her mood was, however, 
more of anger than of sorrow, and there was an 
air of almost insolent pride in the way she now 
knocked, and then, without waiting for reply, 
entered the room. - ’ 

“ Madame de Heidendorf requests that the 
princess will appear in the drawing-room,” said 
she, abruptly, and confronting Kate’s look of 
confusion with a steadfast stare. 

“ Say that I am indisposed, Nina — that I feel 
tired and unwell,” said Kate, timidly. 

“ There is an archduke,' madam.” 

“ What care I for an archduke, Nina,” said 
Kate, trying to smile away the awkwardness of 
her own disturbed manner. 

“ I have always believed that great folk liked 
each other,” said Nina, sarcastically. 

“Then I must lack one element of that con- 
dition, Nina,” said Kate, good-humoredly, “but 
pray make my excuses — say any thing you like, 
so that I may be left in quiet.” 

“ How delightful madame’s reveries must be 
when she attaches such value to them !” 

“ Can you doubt it, Nina ?” replied Kate, 
with a forced gayety. “ A betrothed bride 
ought to be happy, you are always telling me 
so. I hear of nothing from morn till night but 
of rich caskets of gems and jewels ; you seem 
to think that diamonds would throw a lustre over 
any gloom.” 

“And would they not?” cried Nina, passion- 
ately. “ Has not the brow nobler and higher 
thoughts when encircled by a coronet like this? 
Does not the heart beat with greater transport 
beneath gems like these?” And she opened 
case after case of sparkling jewels, as she 
spoke, and spread them before Kate, on the table. 

“ And yet I have learned to look on them 
calmly ?” said Kate, with an expression of proud 
indifference. \ 

“ Does not that dazzle you ?” said Nina, 
holding up a cross of rose diamonds. 

“ No 1” said Kate, shaking her head. 

“Nor that?” cried Nina, displaying a gor- 
geous necklace. 

“ Nor even that, Nina.” 

“ Is madame’s heart so steeled against wo- 
manly vanities,” said Nina, quickly, while she 
threw masses of costly articles before her, 
“ that not one throb, not one flush of pleasure, 
is called up at sight of these ?” 

“ You see, Nina, that I can look on them 
calmly.” 1 

“ Then this, perchance, may move you,” cried 


Nina; and with a bound she sprang to the table 
at which Kate was seated, and, dashing the 
handkerchief away, seized the miniature, and 
held it up. ~ ' , 

Kate uttered a shrill cry and fell back faint- 
ing. Nina gazed at her, for a second or so with 
a ldok of haughty disdain, and sprinkling the 
pale features with a few drops of water she 
turned away. With calm composure she re- 
placed each precious gem within its case, laid 
the miniature once more beneath the handker- 
chief, and then left the room. 

“ Your princess will not honor us, it seems, 
with her company,” said the archduke, half in 
pique, as the messenger returned with Kate’s 
excuses; “and yet I looked for her coming to 
get rid of all the farrago of polities that you, 
wise folk, will insist upon talking.” 

The countess and the minister exchanged 
most significant glances at this speech, whilo 
D’Esmonde politely assented to the remark, by 
adding something about the relaxation necessary 
to overwrought minds, and the need that princes 
should enjoy some repose as well as those of 
lower degree. “ I can, however, assure your 
imperial highness,” said he, “that this is no 
caprice of the young princess. She is really far 
from well, and was even unable to receive her 
own relative this afternoon, the Count von Dal- 
ton.” 

“ What, is old Auersberg a relative of hers?” 

“ An uncle, or a grand-uncle, I forget which, 
sir.” ( . 

“Then that wild youth in the Franz Karl 
must be a connection too?” 

“ The cadet is her brother, sir.” 

“ Indeed ! What an extravagant fellow it is. 
They say that, counting on being Auersberg’s 
heir, he spends money in every possible -fashion; 
and as the tradespeople take the succession on 
trust, his debts are already considerable. It was 
only yesterday his colonel spoke to me of send- 
ing him to the Banat, or some such place. His 
family must be rich, I suppose?” 

“ I believe quite the reverse, sir. Poor to 
indigence. Their entire hope is on the Count 
von Auersberg.” ' j • v 

“ He held a frontier Command for many 
years, and must have saved money. But will 
he like to see it in hands like these?” 

“ I believe — at least so the storv goes ” said 
D’Esmonde, dropping his voice to a whisper, 

“ that the boy’s arguments have scarcely assist- 
ed his object in that respect. They say that 
he told the count that in times like these no 
man’s fortune was worth a year’s purchase ; 
that when monarchs were tottering, and thrones 
rocking, it were better to spend one’s means 
freely than to tempt pillage by hoarding it ” 

“ Are these his notions ?” cried the archduke, 
in amazement. 

“ Yes ; the wildest doctrines of Socialism are 
his creed — opinions, I grieve to say, more widely 
spread than any one supposes.” 

“ How is this, then ? I see the private regi- 


221 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


mental reports of every corps — I read the con- 
duct-rolls ol almost every company, and yet no 
hint ot this disaffection has reached me.” 

“ A priest could reveal more than an adjutant, 
sir,” said the abbe, smiling. “ The youths who 
fancy themselves neglected — who think their 
claims disregarded — who, in a word, imagine 
that some small pretension on the score of family, 
should be the spring of their promotion, are 
easily seduced into extravagant ideas about free- 
dom and so forth.” 

“ Austria is scarce the land for such fruit to 
ripen in,” said the archduke, laughing. * “ Let 
him try France or the United States.” 

“Very true, your highness,” chimed in the 
abbe ; “ but such boys ought to be watched — 
their conduct inquired strictly into.” 

“Or better still, Monsieur l’Abbe,” said the 
archduke, sternly, “ dismissed the service. I 
see no profit in retaining among us the seeds of 
this French malady.” 

“ I believe your highness takes the true view 
of the difficulty,” said D'Esmonde, as though 
reflecting over it. “ And yet you will be asked 
to make an officer of him in a day or two.” 

“An officei of this boy, and "why? or by 
whom?” 1 » , ; • 

“ The princess, his sister, will make the re- 
quest; probably through Yon Auersberg.” 

“But when I tell the ‘Feld’ — ” 

“ Ah, your imperial highness could not betray 
a confidence !” said D’Esmonde. “ I have ven- 
tured to disclose to you what has come to my 
knowledge by means only accessible to myself; 
I therefore rely on your highness not to divulge, 
however you may use it.” 

“ He shall not continue to wear our cloth, 
that you may certainly rely on, M. l’Abbe,” 
said the archduke, sternly. 

“In any case, wait for his sister’s departure, 
sir,” said D’Esmonde, anxiously; “a few days 
or hours. As soon as this silly old lady has 
made up that budget of gossip and scandal she 
fancies to be political news, we’ll see her leave 
this, and then, he can be dealt with as you think 
proper.” 

The archduke made no reply — not seeming 
either to assent to or reject the counsel. “It 
would break the old marshal’s heart,” said he, 
at last. “ That gallant old soldier would never 
survive it.” 

-“ A treason might, indeed, kill him,” said 
D’Esmonde. “ But your highness will antici- 
pate exposure by dismissal — dismissal, peremp- 
tory and unexplained.” , 

Again the archduke was silent, but his lower- 
in o- brow and dark expression told that the sub- 
ject was giving him deep and serious thought. 
“I paid no attention to your conversation this 
evening, abbe,” said he at last; “but it struck 
me, from a chance word, here and there, that 
you suspect these same 1 Liberal notions are 
gaining ground.” 

“ Heresies against the faith, sir, have begot- 
ten their natural offspring, heresies against the 


state : and governments do not yet awaken to 
the fact, that they who scorn the altar, will not 
respect the throne The whole force of what 
are called Liberal Institutions has been to weaken 
the influence pf the clergy ; and yet, it is pre- 
cisely on that same influence you will have to 
fall back. It is beneath the solemn shadow of 
the Church you’ll seek your refuge yet !” 

“No, no,„ father,” said the archduke, with a 
laugh ; “ we have another remedy.” 

“ The mitre is stronger than the £ mitraille,’ 
after all,” said D’Esmonde, boldly. “Believe 
me, sir, that the solemn knell that tolls an ex- 
communication will strike more terror through 
Christendom than all your artillery.” 

Either the remark or tone in which it was 
uttered was unpleasing to the prince ; indeed, 
all the abbe’s courtesy at times gave way to an 
almost impetuous boldness, which royalty never 
brooks, for he turned away haughtily, and joined 
the others at a distant part of the room. 

There was something of scorn in the proud 
look which D’Esmonde gave after him, and then 
slipped from the chamber with noiseless step and 
disappeared. Inquiring the way into the prin- 
cess’s apartment, the abbe slowly ascended the 
stairs, pondering deeply as he Went. Nina was 
passing the corridor at the moment, and, sup- 
posing that life had mistaken the direction, politely 
asked if she could offer him any guidance? 
Scarcely noticing the questioner, he replied, 

“ I was looking for the Princess de Midchi- 
koff’s apartments.” 

“ It is here, sir ; but she is indisposed,” 

“ If you would say that the Abbe d’Es- 
monde — ” 

He had got thus far when, lifting his eyes, 
his glance fell upon her features; and then, as 
if spell-bpund, he stood silently gazing at her. 
Nina’s cheek grew crimson under the stare ; but 
her eyes met his with unshaken firmness. 

“ If I were to disbelieve all probabilities,” 
said he, slowly, “ I should say that I see an old 
friend before me. Are you not the daughter of 
Huertos, the Toridor of Seville?” 

“ Fra Eustace !” said Nina, stepping back 
and staring steadily at him. , ■ 

“No longer so, Lola; I am the Abbfe d Es- 
monde now,” said he, while a faint flush tinged 
his pale features. 

“ And I am Nina, the 1 Cameriera,’ ” replied 
she, scornfully.^ “ See how unequally Fortune 
has dealt with us !” 

D’Esmonde made a sign toward the door, 
which she at once understood, and answered, 

“ Yes, in the service of the princess.” 

“This is, indeed, a strange meeting, Lola.” 

“Call me Nina,” said the girl, flushing, “or 
I shall remember old times, and my Spanish 
blood will little bear such memories.” 

“ Where can we talk together, Nina?” 

“ Come this way, Holy Father,” said she, 
with a half-sneering smile. “ I suppose a poor 
girl may receive her confessor in ber chamber.” 

D’Esmonde walked after her without speak- 


222 


THE DALTONS ; OR, I 

ing. While crossing a gallery she unlocked a 
door, and admitted him into a small but neatly- 
furnished room. 

“Dear Lola,” said the priest, as, taking her 
hand, he looked affectionately at her — “ I must 
needs call you by the old name — what turn of 
fortune has brought you here ?” , ^ 

“ It is a question well becomes .you,” said 
the girl, releasing her hand from his grasp, and 
drawing herself proudly up. “ You cut the 
bark adrift, and you wonder that it has become 
a wreck !” ( 

“ How this old warmth of temper recalls the 
past, and how I love you for it, as I grieve over 
it, Lola ; but be calm, and tell me every thing, 
just as you used to tell me years ago.” ■ 

“ Oh ! if I had the same pure heart as then,” 
cried the girl, passionately. “Oh! if I could 
but shed tears, as once I did, over each slight 
transgression, and not have my spirit seared and 
hardened, as the world has made.it.” v 

“ We can not carry the genial freshness of 
youth into the ripe years' of judgment, Lola. 
Gifts decay, and others succeed them.” 

“ No more of this casuistry. You are, I see, 
the same, whatever changes time may have made 
in me ; but I have outlived these trickeries. 
Tell me, frankly, what do you want with me ?” 

“ Must there needs be some motive of self- 
interest in renewing an old but interrupted friend- 
ship, Lola ? You remember what we once were 
to each other?” 

“ Oh, that Lcould forget it ! — oh, that I could 
wash out the thought, or even think it but a 
dream ! But how can you recall these memo- 
ries ? If the sorrow be mine, is not the shame 
all yours ?” 

“ The shame and the sori’ow are alike mine,” 
said D’Esmonde, in a voice of deep dejection. 

“ You alone, of all the world, were ever able to 
shake within me the great resolves that in prayer 
and devotion I had formed. For yow, Lola, I 
was, for a space, willing to resign the greatest 
cause that ever man engaged in. Ay, for Jove 
of you , I was ready' to peril every thing — even 
to my soul ! Is not this enough for shame and 
sorrow, too ? Is not this humiliation for one 
who wears the robe that I do?” 

“ You were a student in those days, ,? said 
Nina, with a sneering smile : “ and I never heard 
you speak of all those dreadful sacrifices. You 
used to talk of leaving the college with a light 
heart. You spoke of the world as if you were 
impatient to mingle with it. You planned, I 
know not how many, roads to fortune and ad- 
vancement. Among other careers, 1 remem- 
ber,” and here she burst into a scornful laugh, 
that made the priest’s cheek grow crimson with 
passion — “I remember how you hit upon one, 
which speaks rather for your ardor than your 
prudence. Do you forgdt that you would be a 
T oridor ? \ ou, whose cheek grew pale, and 

w 7 hose heart sickened, as my father’s horse lay 
emboweled in the ring, and who fainted outright 
when the bull’s horns were driven into the bar- 


HREE ROADS IN LIFE. 

ricade near you. You a Toridor ! A Toridor 
should have courage !” And, as she spoke, her 
eyes flashed with the fire of passion. 

“ Courage !” said the priest, in a voice almost 
guttural from emotion — “and is there no other 
courage than the vulgar defiance of personal 
danger ; the quality of the veriest savage and 
the merest brute in creation. Is there nothing 
more exalted in courage than to face bodily 
peril ? Are all its instincts selfishness ! What 
think you of the courage of him, who, in all the 
conscious strength of intellect, with powers to 
w 7 in an upward way among the greatest and the 
highest, can stoop to a life of poverty and neglect 
— can give up all that men strive for — home, 
affection, family, citizenship — content to toil 
apart and alone — to watch, and fast, and pray, 
and think-— ay, think till the very, brain reels 
with labor ; and all this for a cause in which he 
is but a unit ! Courage ! Tell me not of cour- 
age beside that of him who dares to shake the 
strongest thrones, and convulses empires with 
his word, whose counsels brave the might of 
armies, and dare even kings to controvert ; and, 
'greatest of all, the courage that for a cause can 
risk salvation ! Yes, Lola, he who to save 
others, hazards his own eternity ! Have I not 
done it ?” cried he, carried away by an impetu- 
ous rush of feeling. “ Have I not overborne 
the truth and sustained the falsehood ? Have I 
not warped the judgments, and clouded the fac- 
ulties, and misdirected the aspirations of many 
who came to me for counsel, knowing that if 
there might be evil now there would be good 
hereafter, aqd that for present and passing sor- 
row there would be a glorious day of rejoicing. 
To this end have I spoken peace to the guilty 
man, and hope to the hardened ! -'■Not for him 
nor for me, but for the countless millions of the 
Church — for the mighty hosts who look to her 
for succor and ^consolation ! This I call oour- 
age !” r , , 

And he drew himself proudly up, and folded 
his arms on his breast with an air of haughty 
composure, while the girl, awed by his manner, 
and subdued by the impetuosity of his speech, 
gazed at him in half fear and wonderment. 

“Tell me of your father, Lola,” said D'Es- 
monde, in a low, soft voice, as be drew her low 
seat to his side. 

“ He was killed at Madrid; he died before 
the queen !” said she, proudly. < , <" 

“The death of a Toridor!” muttered the 
priest, mournfully. 

“ Yes, and Pueblos, too, he is dead !” 

“ Not the little child that I remember — ” 

“ The same. He grew up to be a fine man; 
some thought him handsomer than my father. 
My mother’s family would have made a priest 
of him, but he chose the prouder destiny !” 

; “ I can not think of him but as the child — 
the little fellow who played about my knees, 
dressed like a Matador, his long silky hair in a 
net.”- ; r \, ■ 

“ Oh, do not — do not speak of him,” cried the 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 223 


girl, burying her face between her hands ; my 
heart will not bear those memories.” 

1 he priest's face was lighted up with a 
malevolent delight as he bent over her, as if 
reveling in the thought the emotions could 
cull up. 

" Poor little fellow,” said he, as if to himself. 
u How I remember his bolero that he danced for 
me.” He stopped, and she sobbed bitterly. 
“ He said that Lola taught him.” 

She looked up ; the tears were fast coursing 
along her cheeks, which were pale as death. 

“ Eustace,” said she, tremulously, “these 
thoughts will drive me mad ; my brain is reel- 
ing even now.” 

“ Let us talk of something else, then,” said 
he. “ When did you leave the 1 Opera’ — and 
why?” 

“ How can you ask ? — you were at Seville at 
the time. Have you forgotten that famous 
marriage, to which, by your persuasion, I con- 
sented ; was /this scheme only one of those un- 
happy events which are to be the seed of future' 
good?” " ' 

The sneer made no impression on the priest, 
who calmly answered, “Even so, Lola.” 

“ What do you mean, sjr ?” cried she, angrily, 
“ to what end am I thus ? Was I so base born 
and so low? Was my lot in life so ignomini- 
ous, that I should not have raised my ambition 
above a fortune like this ? — the waiting woman 
of one whose birth is not better than my own.” 

“You are right, Lola, perfectly right, and 
with patience and prudence you will be her 
equal yet. Acton is an English noble — ” 

“What care I for that?” said she. passion- 
ately ; the marriage was a counterfeit.” 

“ The marriage was a true and a valid one.” 

“ And yet you yourself told me it was not 
binding.” 

“ I had my reasons for the deceit, Lola,” said 
he, persuasively. “ You were deserted and 
desolate ; such widowhood would have brought 
you to the grave with sorrow. It' were better 
that you should strive against misery.” 

“Even in shame?” asked she, scornfully.. 

Even in shame, for the shame would be 
short-lived ; but Lord Norwood is alive and you 
are bis wife.” 

“ Lord Norwood ! I have heard that name so 
often,” said she, musingly. 

“ At Florence, of course, he was every night 
at the Mazzarini Palace, the same Gerald Acton 
you remember long ago.” 

“ And he is. a lord — an English noble ?” 

“ And you are an English peeress, Lola. 
There is not a Coronet more safe upon a titled 
head than I can make yours — can and will 
make,” added he, slowly. “Rut you must be 
patient 5 I must now speak to jou, Lola, ol 
themes in which you can take no interest, and 
subjects of which you know nothing : but listen 
to me attentively, and hear me, for fortune has 
not thus thrown us together without a meaning. 

“ The hour is come, Lola, when Heretics and 


Infidels have determined on an attack of our 
Faith; not as they have hitherto attempted, and 
with such signal failure, by the weapons of 
controversy and discussion, but by brute force ; 
by the might of millions driven to madness from 
want and misffovernment. To avert this terrible 
calamity is now the unceasing thought of the 
Church. Some have counseled one thing, some 
another ; some would go forth to the fight, 
trusting that, as of old, God would not forget 
his people ; there are others who deem this 
course presumptuous and unwise. The hearts 
of kings are not as they once were — in their 
confessor’s keeping. Our age nor manners 
would send forth no crusade ! The battle must 
be otherwise contested. You could not follow 
me, Lola, were I to tell you either of the perils 
or their antidotes. Enough that I say we must 
have trusty and faithful agents in every land of 
Europe, and in every rank in every people. 
From the secret whisperings of the ezai', to the 
muttered discontent of the Irish peasant, we 
must know them all. To this end have we 
labored anxiously and eagerly for some time 
back, and already have we made great progress. 
From every court of Europe we now receive 
tidings, and therb is not a royal palace where 
our interests are unguarded. Some serve us 
for the glorious cause itself, some have their 
own price, some again are in our hands from 
motives of self-interest or terror, but all are 
alike true. This princess — this Dalton — I des- 
tined for a duty of the same nature. Married 
to a man of Midehikoff’s wealth and influence, 
she might have done good service, but I scarcely 
dare to trust her; even at the sacrifice of her- 
self she might fail me ; and although in my 
power, I can not count upon her.. Think, then, 
of my joy at finding you, one on whose fidelity 
I may hazard life itself. You can be all to me, 
and a thousand times more than ever she could.” 

“Your spy,” said the girl, steadily, but with- 
out the slightest semblance of anger.. 

“My friend, my counselor, my correspondent, 
Lola.” 

“ And the price ?”■ - 

“ You may name it, if your heart be set on 
mere worldly distinction. I will prove your 
marriage, and although Norwood is not rich, his 
country never neglects the class he belongs to. 
Would you break the tie — the bond is in my 
keeping.” • . ' 

“I never loved him,” cried she, passionately, 
“ and you knew it. The marriage was one of 
those snares on which your mind never ceases 
to dwell.” 

“ If you loved another, Lola?” said he, inter- 
rupting, and then waiting for her to finish the 
speech. ■ > 

“And if I had,” burst she forth, “am I 
credulous enough to fancy that your word can 
reconcile every difference of rank and fortune- 



affection. No, no, Ettstace ; I have outlived all 
that! ,; 


224 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE 


Then were you wiser when you believed 
it,” said he, gravely. “Now for his name.” 

There was a tone of almost commanding 
influence in which these last few words were 
uttered, and his dark full eyes were steadily 
fixed on her as he spoke them. 

She hesitated to answer, and seemed to re- 
flect. 

“I ask no forced confession, Lola,” said he, 
proudly, and rising at the same time from his 
seat. “ In all the unreserve of our old affection, 
I told you my secret; yours is with yourself.” 

“But, can you — ” 

She stopped. ~ - , • , 

, • :• , N ..v .. V ;V ; .. *' ... 





■f ' 1 

, ... , 

’ ' ’ ' •• - \ .?• 
. • ,i 


• . ' '„l >, 

, , . it y t i 




“I can, and I will aid you,” said he, finishing 
her sentence. 

“There is the name, then,” cried she, as, 
with a passionate gesture she drew a sealed 
letter from her bosom, and showed him the 
superscription. 

D’Esmonde almost started ; but, recovering 
himself in an instant, he said, 

“ The address is not correct, Lola. It should 
be thus — ” And taking a pen, he drew it 
across the last line on the cover, and wrote, in- 
stead, “ Dewanpore Barracks, Calcutta.” “We 
must talk together this evening,” said he, re- 
storing the letter, and, without more, withdrew. 



CHAPTER XLIX. 


D’ESMONDE’S LETTER. 




■ 






■ ,i 

' • • • ■ • • '• 

■S 


: 




i* will spare the reader a somewhat lengthy 
digressioi. if we give him a peep at an extract 
from a letter written at this period by the Abbe 
D’Esmonde to a friend and fellow priest in Ire- 
land. It was written on the very evening whose 
events we have just mentioned, and when fresh 
from the scenes of which he speaks. 

The name or circumstances of the Abbe’s 
confidant have no interest for us ; nor need we 
allude to him more particularly than by stating 
that he was one who took a prominent part in 
his country’s politics, and was a w T ell-known 
agitator, both in print and on the platform. 
The present moment might not be inopportune 
to show the injustice of that sneer so often 
passed upon men of this stamp, and which as- 
sumes that their whole lives are spent in the 
agitation of small and irritating questions of 
mere local interest — the petty intrigues of a 
village or a hamlet — and without knowledge or 
interest for those greater themes which stir the 
heart of all Europe. We must not, however, 
be led away from our purpose; but, leaving 
these inferences to our readers’ appreciation, 
keep to the sober business of our task. 

We have only to premise that D’Esmonde 
and his friend had been school-fellows and col- 
lege companions, and that the revelations made 
were in all the confidence of unbounded ft-ust 
and security. Neither w r as the hazard of a 
post-office incurred, for the document was for- 
warded, with several letters from Rome, by a 
private hand — a priest, who twice each year 
performed the journey on a similar errand, and 
—shall we startle our reader if we add, in a 
spirit apart from all the caprices of fiction — 
still travels on the same mission. 

After some apology for the time the epistle 
would be on the road, seeing that it should first 
return to Rome ere it began its journey north- 
ward, D’Esmonde next alludes to some private 
and personal matters, and some individuals of 
their acquaintance, and then proceeds : 

“ It is not without much inconvenience that 
I am here at this moment, but my presence 
was necessary to neutralize the influence of 
this troublesome old countess, and who would 
fain stop, if she could, all these liberal move- 
ments e r e they have developed their true mean- 
ing. You can have no idea how difficult is this 
task, nor with what persistent folly people go 
on repeating each other’s ‘ platitudes’ about 


‘timely checks,’ ‘scotching the snake,’ and so 
forth. It is now upward of half a century since 
Europe has seen a real political convulsion ; a 
new lesson is wanting. I often used to hope 
that you of the West might be able to give it. 
I had formed great expectations of Chartism at 
one time. It possessed the due elements of 
mischief in abundance ; it was infidel and hun- 
gry ; but it wanted the great requisites — de- 
termination and courage. The example must 
come from the Continent; and, in one respect, 
it is so much the better. Your home disturbers 
w r ould be necessarily the enemies of the An- 
glican Church, whereas our anarchists here 
are inseparably associated with Protestantism. 
This ‘coup’ required some cleverness, but we 
at last accomplished it. Ronge’s movement of 
secession gave the first opportunity ; the Swiss 
troubles offered the second ; a little more, and 
the Bonnet rouge will be the symbol of the Prot- 
estant faith. Mark the advantage of this : see 
the distrust with which every nation of the Con- 
tinent will regard England and her constitution- 
mongering ; look how they will be induced to 
associate her printed cottons with her Church, 
and connect the spread of her trade with the 
treacherous dissemination of her doctrines. So 
far so good. And then, remember, that to all 
this anarchy and ruin the Church of the true 
faith alone offers any effectual opposition — the 
‘ platoon,’ for the hour of conflict ; but to the 
priest must they come to consolidate the shat- 
tered edifice, to rebuild the tottering fabric of 
society. Men do not see this yet ; and there is 
but one way to teach it — a tremendous lesson 
of blood and anarchy. This is in store for them, 
believe me. . ‘ 

“My great difficulty is to persuade these 
people to patience. They will not wait, as 
Napoleon did for the Prussians, till they were 
‘ en flagrant delit and yet, if they do not, the 
whole experiment goes for nothing. With all 
their hordes of horse, foot, and dragoons ; their 
grape and canister ; their grenades and rocket- 
batteries, they have not the courage of a poor 
priest. His Holiness is, however, doing better : 
he has taken the whole au serieux ; he has 
brought himself to believe that moderate re- 
forms — what are they ? — will satisfy the wishes 
of demagogue ambition, and that when he has 
lashed popular fury into full speed, he can 
check it at will. Of course you guess what 


226 THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


•will follow ; and you already see what a busy 
time is before us. Oh ! my dear Michel, I can 
stop here, and, closing my eyes, revel in the 
glorious future that must succeed. I see the 
struggle before me; I know that some good 
men, mayhap some great ones, will fall in it ; 
but in the distance I see the dome of St. Peter’s 
rising majestically above the clouds of battle, 
and the countless millions kneeling, once more, 
before its altars ! 

“ I do not clearly understand you about Ire- 
land, although I agree in the policy of putting 
the Protestant rebels in the foreground. A con- 
flict ever so brief with the government would 
be most useful. I have thought a good deal on 
the subject, and am convinced that nothing 
would awe England more than the impression 
of any foreign assistance being given to Irish 
insurrection, while it would lend to your loy- 
alty the grand trait of nationality. This is a 
highly important feature. Remark how they 
are taunting us with being ultra-montane just 
now, and think what an answer will this be to 
the sarcasm ? I am sure — that is, if you con- 
curred with me — I could easily persuade some 
young fellows in this service to join the move- 
ment. As officers, and well acquainted with 
military details, they would have a formidable 
•effect in English eyes. I have two or three in 
my mind already ; one, a brother of my young 
princess, that fair damsel of whom I spoke in 
my last letter as my destined charge d'affaires 
at St. Petersburgh — a very difficult post to fill, 
and one for which I am by no means sure she 
will be adequate. When I reflect on the diffi- 
culties experienced by us in arriving at truth, 
•we, who have the hearts of men so open before 
us, I am astounded at any success that attends 
a mere secular government. More than two- 
thirds of those with whom I live, are, so to say, 
in my power ; that is, their reputation and their 
fortunes; and yet I must make them feel this 
ten times a day, to turn them to my account. 
Believe* me the Holy Office was right : there is 
an inseparable bond of union between truth 
and a thumb-screw ! 

“ Tell me if you wish for military aid : sub- 
stantially, I am well aware, it would be worth 
nothing, but it might assist in pushing your 
patriots, who, I must own, are a cautious race, 

■ £i step further. This Dalton boy is a thorough 
.Austrian up to this — a regular ‘ God and the 
•Emperor’ soldier; but I have thrown more 

■ stubborn metal into the crucible, and seen it 
■come out malleable. 

“ You ask about the 1 Converts ;’ and I must 
own their defection is a greater slur on Prot- 
estantism than any matter of glorification to 
ns. They are unceasing in their exactions, and 
. all fancy that no price is too high for the honor 
■of their alliance ; not a shovel-hat among them 
who does not expect to be a ‘ Monsignore’ at 
least ! 

“ Some, however, like my friend Lady Hes- 
ter, are wealthy, and in this way reward the 
, trouble they give us. On her security I have 


obtained a loan, not of the sum you wished for, 
but of a smaller amount, the particulars of 
which I inclose. I know not if you will agree 
with me, but my opinion is, that nothing should 
be expended on the Irish press. Its influence is 
slight, and purely local ; reserve all your seduc- 
tions for the heavier metal on the other side of the 
Channel, and who, however ignorantly they talk, 
are always heard with respect and attention. 

“ I can not go over as you propose, nor, if I 
could, should I be of any use to you. You all 
understand your people, their habits and modes 
of thought,' far better than we do, who have 
been fencing with cardinals, and sparring with 
the Sacred College, for the last ten or a dozen 
years. Above all things, no precipitation ; re- 
member that your grand policy is the mainte- 
nance of that feverish condition that paralyzes 
every effort of English policy. Parade all your 
grievances; but rather to display the submis- 
sion with which you bear them than to pray for 
their relief. Be touchy only for trifles ; keep 
all your martyrdom for great occasions ; never 
forget, that this time it is your loyalty ! is to be 
rewarded. Adieu, my dear Michel. Tell his 
Grace whatever, you think fit of these, my opin- 
ions, and say, also, that he may rely on us here 
for withdrawing or confirming, as he pleases, any 
concessions he may deem proper to grant the 
English Government. We know his difficulties, 
and will take care not to augment them. As 
to the Cardinal’s hat, let him have no doubts, 
only beg him to be circumspect, and that this 
is not the time to assume it ! If men would 
but see what a great cause we have, and how 
it is to be won by waiting — nothing more, 
Michel — nothing more, believe me, than mere 
waiting ! 

“ All that you tell me, therefore, about titles 
and dignities, and so forth, is premature. With 
patience you will be able to assume all, from 
wflich, a momentary precipitation would infal- 
libly see you repulsed. A few of your leading 
men still cling to the ruinous notion of elevatinor 
Ireland ; for Heaven’s sake cease not to combat 
this. It is the Church — the Church alone for 
which we combat. Her difficulties are enough, 
without linking her fortune to such a sinking 
destiny! You have many able men among you, 
and they ought to see this proposition in its 
true light. 

“You are right — though you only throw it 
out in jest — about the interest I feel for my lit- 
tle princess and her brother. It was the charity 
of a relative of theirs — a certain Mr. Godfrey — 
that first gave me the entrance into my career. 
He sent me to Louvain as a boy, and thence to 
Salamanca, and afterward to Rome. He paid 
liberally for my education, and I believe, in- 
tended, had he lived, to have provided hand- 
somely for me. The story has an ugly ending; 
at least the rumors are gloomy ones, and I 
would rather not revive their memory. Here 
have I fallen into a sad track of thought, dear 
Michel ; and now it is past midnight, and all is 
silent about me, and I feel half as if I ought to 


V. 


227 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


tell you every thing, and yet that every thing 
resolves itself into nothing; for, of my actual 
knowledge, I possess not one single fact. 

11 Can you conceive the position of a man 
with a great, a glorious future before him — 
rewards the very highest his wildest ambition 
ever tancied — a sphere to exercise powers that 
he feels within, and but needing a field for their 
display ? Picture to yourself such a man, and 
then fancy him tortured by one terrible sus- 
picion — one damning doubt — that there is a 
flaw in his just title to all this — that some day 
or other there may rise up against him — he 
knows not how, or whence, or why — from the 
very earth as it were, a voice to say, * You are 
disowned, disgraced — you are infamous before 
men!’ Such a terrible hell have I carried for 
years within me ! Yes, Michel, this ulcer is 
eating at my very heart, and yet it is only like 
a vision of evil — some mind-drawn picture, 
carried up from infancy through boyhood, and 
stealing on, year by year, into the prime of life, 
strengthening its ties on me like a malady. 

“ You will say this is a diseased imagination 
— the fruits of an overworked brain, or, not im- 

i * \ ‘ # j 

probably, the result of an overwrought vanity, 
that would seek consolation for failures in the 
dim regions of superstition. It may be so ; and 
yet I have found this terror beset me more in 
the seasons of my strength and activity than in 
those of sickness and depression. Could I have 
given a shape and color to my thoughts, I might 
aave whispered them in the confessional, and 
Sought some remedy against their pain ; but I 
jould not. They flash on my waking faculties 
?ike the memories of a recent dream. I half 
jloubt that they are not real, and look around 
me for the evidences of some change in my 
condition. I tremble at the first footstep that 
draws near my door, lest the new comer should 
bring the tidings of my downfall ! 

“ I was at Rome — a student of the Irish col- 
lege — when this cloud first broke over me. 
Some letter came from Ireland — some docu- 
ment containing a confession, I believe. I was 
summoned before the superiors, and questioned 
as to my family, of which I knew nothing ; and 
as to my means, of which I could tell as lit- 
tle. My attainments at the college were in- 
quired into, and a strict scrutiny as to my con- 
duct ; but thougu both were above reproach, 
not a word of commendation escaped them ; on 
the contrary, I overheard, amid their whisper- 
ings, the terrible Word, ‘ Degradato!’ You can 
fancy how my heart sank within me at a phiase 
so significant of shame and debasement ! 

“ 1 was told the next morning that my patron 
was dead, and that, having no longer the means 
to support the charges ol a student, I should 
become a c Laico ;’ in other woids, a species 
of servant in the college. These were dr ead- 
ful tidings: but they were short ol what I feai- 
ed. There was nothing said of ‘ Degradation.’ 
I struggled, however, against the hardship of 
the sentence — I appealed to my proficiency in 
study — the prizes I had won the caaracter I 


bore, and so on ; but although a few months 
more would have seen me qualified for the 
priesthood, my prayer was rejected, and I was 
made a ‘ Laico.’ Two months afterward I was 
sent to the convent of the ‘ Espiazione,’ at An- 
cona. Many of my early letters have told you 
the sufferings of that life ! — the awful pun- 
ishments of that gloomy prison, where all are 
1 Degradati,’ and where none are to be found 
save men stained with the foulest crimes, I 
was seventeen months there — a ‘ Laico’ — a 
servant of the meanest class — no consolation of 
study, no momentary solace in tracing others’ 
thoughts to relieve the horrible solitude of my 
own. Labor — incessant, debasing labor — my 
lot from day till dawn. 

“ I have no clew to the nature of my guilt. 
I declare solemnly before Heaven, as I write 
these lines, that I am not conscious of a crime 
— save such as the confessional has expiated — 
and yet the ritual of my daily life implied such. 
The offices and litanies I had to repeat, the 
penances I suffered, were those of the s Espi- 
azione !’ I dare not trust myself to recall this 
terrible period — the only rebellious sentiment 
my heart has ever known sprang from that tor- 
tured existence. As an humble priest in the 
wildest regions of Alpine snow — as a mission- 
ary among the most barbarous tribes — I could 
have braved hardships, want, death itself; but, 
as the 1 Degradato,’ dragging out life in failing 
strength, with faculties each day weaker, watch- 
ing the ebb of intellect, and wondering how 
near I was to that moping idiotcy about me, 
and whether, in that state, suffering and sor- 
row slept ! Oh, Michel ! my hands tremble, 
and the tears blot the paper as I write. Can 
this ordeal ever work for good? The mass 
sink into incurable insanity — a few, like my- 
self, escape ; and how do they come- back into 
the world? I speak not of other changes; but 
what hardness of the heart is engendered by 
extreme suffering — what indifference to the 
miseries of others. How compassionless do we 
become to griefs that are nothing to those we 
have ourselves endured ! You know well that 
mine has not been a life of indolence, that I have 
toiled hard and long in the cause of our faith, 
and yet I have never been able to throw off the 
dreary influence of that conventual existence. 
In the excitement of political intrigue, I remem- 
ber it least; in the whirlwind of passions by 
which men are moved, I can for a time forget 
the cell, the penance, and the chain. I have 
strono- resentments too, Michel. I would make 
them feel that to him they sentenced once to 
‘ Degradation,’ must they now come for advice 
and guidance — that poor ‘ Laico’ can now sit 
at their councils and direct their acts. There 
is something so glorious in the tyranny of Rome, 
so high above the petty sovereignty of mere 
kings, soaring beyond the bounds of realms and 
states, crossing Alps and oceans, proclaiming 
its proud edicts in the great cities of Europe, 
declaring its truths in the silent forests of the 
far West, stirring the heart of the monarch oa 


) 


m THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


his throne, thrilling the rugged breast of the 
Indian in his wigwam, that even to bear a ban- 
ner in its ranks is a noble privilege. And now 
I come back to these children, with whose for- 
tunes I feel myself — I know not how — bound 
up. They were related to this Mr. Godfrey, 
and that, perchance, may be the secret link 
which binds us. The girl might have won a 
grand destiny — she had beauty, grace, fascina- 
tion — all that men prize in these days of ours ; 
but there was no high ambition — nothing be- 
yond the thirst for personal admiration. I watch- 
ed her anxiously and long. There was a weak 
goodness about her heart, too, that gave no 
promise of self-sacrifice. Such, however, as 
she is, she is mine. As for the boy, I saw him 
yesterday for the first time ; but he can not be a 
difficult conquest. Again I hear you ask me why 
can I turn from great events and stirring themes 
to think of these ; and again, I own, that I can 
not tell you. Power over every one, the hum- 
blest as the highest, the weakest in purpose and 
the strongest of heart — power to send forth or 
restrain, to crush or to exalt — this is the prize 
of those who, like you and me, walk humbly, 
that we may reign proudly. 


' c. /■ 

^ •*' 

4 , , * 

» s 


u And now, dear Michel, good-by. I have 
made you a confession, and if I have told little, 
the fault is not mine. You know all my senti- 
ments on great events — my hopes, and my an- 
ticipations. I must leave this to-morrow or 
the day after, for there is much to do beyond 
the Alps. If kings and kaisers but knew as 
much as we poor priests, the coming would 
scarce be a merry Christmas with them. 

4 ‘ Yours, in all truth and brotherhood, 

“ Mathew D’Esmonde. 
“Feast of St. Pancratius, Hof Thor, Vienna.” 

* ^ * . 

It was already daybreak when D’Esmonde 
finished his letter, but instead of retiring to bed, 
he opened his window, and sat enjoying the 
fresh air of the morning. Partly from habit, 
he opened his book of “offices; but his eyes 
wandered, even from the oft-repeated lines, to 
the scene before him — the spreading glacis— 
where, already, the troops were mustering for 
parade. “ What a strange thing is courage,” 
thought he. “ I, who feel my spirit quail at 
the very rumbling sound of a gun-carriage, have 
a soul to see all Europe convulsed, and every 
nation in arms, undismayed !” 


’ . ' i 

• . s 

r* 


; -V 
















,) 



\ 








CHAPTER L. 


“ THE CADET YON DALTON.” 


As Madame de HeindorPs mornings were 
always passed in receiving the visits, or an- 
swering the letters of her political acquaint- 
ances, Kate was free to spend her hours with 
Frank, exchanging confidences, and talking of 
that dear home from which they were more 
separated even by circumstance than by space. 

The cadet had obtained leave for the entire 
day — an inconceivable favor in his eyes — and 
Kate was seated at her breakfast when he ap- 
peared. When they met the day before, Frank’s 
undivided attention had been drawn to Kate 
herself — the change in her whole air and man- 
ner — that graceful dignity of mien which ele- 
vated his regard for her to a species of wor- 
ship ; now, however, he had time to be struck 
with the accessories of her position, the gor- 
geous chamber, the splendid silver of the service, 
the rich liveries, every thing which bespoke her 
proud and affluent condition. 

“ I almost start back with shame, Kate,” said 
he, “ if, in passing these great mirrors, I catch 
a glimpse of my humble figure, so unsuited 
does it seem to magnificence like this ; nor can 
I help thinking that your household agrees 
with me. With all their respectful courtesy, 
they must wonder when they look on the brother 
of their princess.” 

“You know well, dearest Frank, that in 
your service the highest in the land must pass 
the ordeal of cadetship.” 

“ Which means half an hour for an archduke, 
and a forenoon for a serene highness. Even 
Walstein took but a week to spring from the 
ranks to a lieutenancy ; a month later saw him 
a Rittmeister ; and already he commands a 
regiment.” 

“ What a young soldier to have caught up 
the complaining cant about slow promotion,” 
said Kate, laughing. 

“ Ten months a cadet, and not even made 
corporal yet,” sighed Frank. “To be sure, I 
might have been, had it not been for the 
Stockhaus.” 

“ And what may that be, dear Frank ?” 

“ The prison ; neither more nor less. When 
I came here, Kate, the nephew or grand- 
nephew, of the Field-Marshal von Auersberg, 
I thought it became me to assume something 
like style in my mode of life. My comrades 
told me as much, too ; and, as I had no difficulty 
in obtaining credit, I ran in debt eveiy wheie. 
I lent to all who asked me, and gave away to 
many more. Every one said that the held 
would pay one day or other, and I never con- 
fessed how poor we were at home. I know I 


was wrong there, dearest Kate; I feel that 
acutely, now ; but somehow the deception I 
began with others gained even more rapidly on 
myself. From continually talking of our Dalton 
blood, and our high position in our own coun- 
try, I grew to believe it all, and fancied that 
some at least of these imaginings must be real. 
But, above all, I cherished the hope that pro- 
motion would come at last, and that I should 
live to be an honored soldier of the Kaiser. 

“ In the very midst of all this self-deception, 
the Feld returns to Vienna, from a tour of in- 
spection, and, instead of sending to see me, 
orders my colonel to his presence. I know 
not, of course, what passed, but report alleges 
that for an hour the old general harangued him. 
in terms the most bitter and insulting. Now, 
my dear sister, the wrath poured out upon a 
commanding officer does not become diminished 
as it descends through the successive grades of 
rank, and falls at last on the private. For my 
misdemeanor the regiment was ordered away 
from Vienna, and sent to Laybach, in the very 
depth of winter, too. This could not help my 
popularity much among my comrades; and as 
I was now as destitute of credit as of means, 
you may fancy the alteration of my position— 
the black bread of the commissary, instead of 
the refined cookery of ‘the Schwan ;’ the mid- 
night patrol, in rain or snow-drift, in place 
of the joyous carouse of the supper-table ; the 
rude tyranny of a vulgar sergeant, in lieu of 
the friendly counsels of an equal ; all that is 
menial and servile — and there is enough of 
both in the service — heaped upon me day after 
day ; till, at last my only hope was in the 
chance that I might ultimately imbibe the rude 
feelings of the peasant-soldier, and drag out 
my existence without a wish or a care for 
better. 

“ As if to make life less endurable to me, the 
officers were forbidden to hold intercourse with 
me ; even such of the cadets as were above the 
humbler class, were ordered not to associate 
with me ; my turns of duty were doubled ; my 
punishments for each trifling offense increased ; 
and there I was, a soldier in dress, a convict in 
duty, left to think over all the flattering illu- 
sions 1 had once conceived of the service, its 
chivalry, and its fame! 

“ I wrote to Walstein, telling him that if I 
could not obtain my freedom otherwise, I would 
desert ! A copy of my letter, I know not how 
obtained, was sent to my colonel, and I was 
sentenced to a month’s arrest, a week of which 
I was to pass in irons. They now made me a 


230 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


rebel in earnest, and I came out of the ‘ Stock- 
haus’ more insubordinate than I went in. It 
would weary, and it would fret you, dearest 
sister, were I to tell all the petty schemes I 
formed of resistance, and all the petty tyrannies 
they brought down upon my head : the taunt 
of my ‘ gentle blood,’ my ‘ noble origin,’ my 
‘ high descent,’ being added to every cruelty 
they practiced, till I was ready to curse the 
very name that associated me with this bitter- 
ness. They told me that a second desertion 
was always punished with death, and that even 
the attempt was accounted as the act. I re- 
solved, then, to finish with this dreary exist- 
ence, and I wrote a farewell letter to poor Nelly, 
telling her that, as I was certain of being taken, 
these were the last lines I should ever write. 
In this I repeated all I have now told you, and 
a vast deal more, of the hardships and indig- 
nities I had endured ; and this, like my former 
letter, was sent back to me. Then came three 
months more of durance, after which I came 
out what they deemed a good soldier.” 

“ Subdued at last,” sighed Kate. 

“Not a bit of it. Like a Banat charger, I 
had a kick in me, after all their teaching and 
training. I found out the lance-corporal of our 
company was the man who had discovered my 
letters. I sent him a challenge, fought, and 
wounded him. Here was another offense ; and 
now the Minister of War was to deal with me 
himself ; and I half fancied they would be glad 
to get rid of me. Far from it. The ‘ Stock- 
haus’ again, and short fetters, my wrist to my 
ankle, were the sovereign remedies for all mis- 
deeds. In this plight I made my entrance into 
Vienna.” 

“ Did you never think of uncle Stephen all 
this while, Frank — never appeal to him?” 

“ Ay, Kate, and what was worse, he thought 
of me, for he had my punishment-rolls brought 
to him, and although, from some good-natured 
interference they did not forward more than a 
fourth of my misdeeds, there was enough to 
condemn me in his eyes, and he wrote, 4 No 
favor to this cadet,’ on the back of my certi- 
ficate.” 

“ Poor boy ! so friendless and deserted.” 

“ Pei-secuted by creditors, too,” continued 
F rank, as excited by the recital of his sorrows, 
he paced the room in a transport of anger; 
“ fellows that never rested till they got me in 
their books, and now gave me no peace for pay- 
ment. Out of three kreutzers a day, Kate — a 
penny English — I was to discharge all the 
debts of my extravagance, and live in style ! 
A Dalton, well-born and nurtured, in a position 
of ignominious poverty !” 

“ Not one to aid you !” 

“ Walstein was away in Bohemia with his 
regiment, and, perhaps, it were better so, for I 
had told him such narratives of our family, 
such high-flown stories of our princely posses- 
sions, that I could not have had the courage to 
face him with an avowal of the opposite. At 
last I did make a friend, Kate; at least, one 


| poor fellow took an interest in me, talked to me 
of home, of you and Nelly ; mostly of her and 
of heir curious carvings, which he prized almost 
as much as little Hans used. He sat with me 
many an hour under the trees of the Prater, or 
we strolled along in the shady alleys of the 
‘ Au Garten,’ and his companionship somehow 
always soothed and comforted me, for he was 
so stored with book learning, that he could ever 
bring out something from Uhland, or Richter, 
or Wieland, that suited the moment, just as if 
the poet had me in his mind when he wrote it. 
How often have I wished that I were like him, 
Kate, and had a mind like his, teeming with its 
own resources against sorrow.” 

“Tell me more of him, Frank, dearest; I 
feel an interest in him already.” 

(l And yet you would scarcely have liked 
him, if you saw him,” said the boy, with a 
bashful and hesitating manner. 

“ Why not, Frank ? His appearance might 
have been little promising, his face and figure 
commonplace — ” 

“ No, no : not that — not that. Adolf was 
good looking, with a fine clear brow, and a 
manly, honest face ; nor was his manner vulgar 
— at least for his station. He was a peddler.” 

“ A peddler, Frank,” cried Kate, growing 
scarlet as she spoke. 

“ Ay, I knew well how you would he'ar the 
word,” said the boy; “I often used to fancy 
my high-bred sister’s scorn if she could but 
have seen the companion whose arm lay around 
my neck, and who spoke to me as * Thou.’ ” 

Kate made no answer, but her cheek was 
crimson, and her lip trembled. 

“ You and Walstein were never out of my 
thoughts,” continued Frank, “for I could fancy 
how each of you would look down upon him.” 

“Not that, Frank,” said she, in confusion; 
“ if he were indeed kind to you ; if he were 
a true friend in that time of dreariness and 
gloom.” 

• “ So was he — with hand, and heart, and 
purse. And yet — confound that sense of pride, 
which poisons every generous movement of the 
heart, and will not let it throb in unison with 
one of humble fortune ! — I never could get the 
Dalton out of my head. There it was, with 
that lumbering old fabric of an Irish house, our 
wasteful habits, and our idle dependents, all 
going down to ruin together ; and, instead of 
despising myself for this, I only was ashamed 
— at what, think you ? — of my friendship for a 
peddler ! Many a holiday have I kept my bar- 
rack-room, rather than be seen with Adolf in 
the Volks Garten, or the Graben. I liked to 
be along with him in the solitude of the Prater, 
or in our country walks ; but when he asked me 
to accompany him to the cafe or the theatre, 
Kate — to some ordinary in the Leopoldstadt, or 
some wine-cellar on the Danube, I used to feign 
duty, or actually take a comrade’s guard, to 
avoid it. How meanly you think of me for all 
this, Kate. I see, by the flush upon your cheek, 
what shame the confession has given you.” 


231 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Kate’s confusion grew almost intolerable ; 1 
she twice tried to speak, but the effort was 
above her strength, and Frank, who mistook 
her silence for rebuke, at last went on : 

‘'You may guess, Kate, from what I have 
now told you, how much soldiering has realized 
all my early hopes and ambitions. I suppose 
times were different long ago.” 

‘ 01 course they were, or uncle Stephen would 
not new be a field-marshal.” 

As if in echo to her words, at this moment a 
servant, throwing wide the door, announced 

The Feld” himself. Frank fell back as the 
old general advanced into the room, bowing 
with a courtesy that would have done honor to 
a courtier, lie was dressed in the uniform of 
his rank, and wore all his decorations, a goodly 
mass, that covered one entire side of his coat. 

Approaching Kate with a manner of admira- 
bly blended affection and respect, he kissed her 
hand, and then saluted her on either cheek. 
“ Forgive me, my dear niece,” said he, “if I 
have not been earlier to pay my respects, and 
say welcome to Vienna ; but my note will have 
told you that I was on duty yesterday with the 
emperor.” 

Kate blushed and bowed, for unhappily she 
had not read the note through. Frank’s pres- 
ence had made her forget all but himself. With 
all the gallantry of his bygone school, the old 
“ Feld” proceeded to compliment Kate on her 
beauty and grace, expressing in proper phrase 
his pride at the possession of such a relative. 

“ The empress was the first to tell me of 
your arrival,” said he; “and nothing could be 
more gracious than the terms in which she 
spoke of you.” 

With a thrill of pleasure Kate heard these 
words, and greedily drank in every syllable he 
uttered. Not alone her betrothal to the prince, 
but all the circumstances of her future destiny, 
seemed to be matters of deep interest to the 
Court, and poor Kate listened with wonder to 
the Feld, as he recounted the various specula- 
tions her marriage had given rise to. She little 
knew within what a narrow circle the sympa- 
thies of royalty are forced to revolve, and how 
glad they are of any thing to relieve the tedious 
monotony of existence. One most important 
question had already arisen, since the empress had 
expressed a wish that the young princess should 
be presented to her ; but Madame de Heidendorf 
refused her permission, on the ground that she 
had not yet been presented at the court of the 
czar. All the difficulties of the two cases, the 
arguments for either course, the old general 
deployed with an earnestness, that if it at first 
amused, at last deeply interested Kate. The 
flattering sense of self-importance giving a con- 
sequence to trifles, which, il told ol another, she 
would have smiled at. 

“I was desirous of gratifying the empress 
before I saw you, my dear niece,” said he, 
taking her hand; but you may guess how 
much greater is my anxiety now that I have 
learned to know you. It will be, indeed, a j 


proua day for the old field-marshal when he 
shall present one of his own name and family, so 
gifted, and so beautiful. A thorough Dalton !” 
added he, gazing on her with rapture. 

“ How glad am I, sir, to see that all the dis- 
tinctions your great career has won have not ef- 
faced the memory of our old name and house.” 

“ I have but added to it another as noble 
as itself,” replied he haughtily. “ Others have 
given their energies to degrade our ancient line- 
age. It is to be your task and mine, madame 
la princesse, to replace us in our rightful sta- 
tion.” 

Kate instinctively sought out Frank with her 
eyes, but could barely catch a glimpse of his 
figure within a recess of a window. More than 
once the poor cadet had meditated an escape ; 
but as the door was on the opposite side of the 
room he saw discovery would be inevitable. 
With a graceful courtesy the old Feld asked 
after Father and Nelly, expressing his wish to 
see and know them, in terms which plainly con- 
veyed to Kate his utter ignorance of their station 
and habits. 

“ As a younger son myself, without the ties 
of fortune, I may be permitted to doubt how far 
the head of a distinguished house has a right 
from any consideration of personal gratification, 
to reside away from his country, madame. I 
must own that my nephew’s conduct in this re- 
spect has not met my approval. I have not felt 
free to tell him so, our intercourse being for so 
many years interrupted ; but you will say as 
much for me. Let him know that the great 
names of a nation ought not to die out in peo- 
ple’s memories.” 

“You are aware, sir,” said Kate, timidly, 
“ that papa’s means are not as they once were ; 
circumstances of economy first suggested his 
coming abroad.” 

“ A reason that always has appeared to me 
insufficient,” said the other, sternly. “ He could 
have reduced his establishment at home — fewer 
hunters — less splendid banquets.” 

“ Hunters and banquets !” sighed Kate ; 
“ how little he knows of us !” 

“ Here, I see nothing but the best fruits of 
his system,” said he, kissing her hand with 
gallantry ; “ no cost could be accounted too 
much that aided the attainment of such perfec- 
tion. I am too old a courtier not to distinguish 
between mere native gracefulness and that more 
polished elegance which comes of refined inter- 
course. My niece is worthy to be a princess ! 
But your brother — ” 

“ Oh ! what of Frank?” cried she, eagerly. 

“ Simply this, madame : habits of wasteful 
expenditure have unsuited him to the stern re- 
alities of a soldier’s life. With his fortune, and 
his tastes, he should have sought service among 
those popinjays that English tailors make Lan- 
cers or Hussars of. He might have won the 
laurels that are gathered on Hounslow, or St. 
James’s Park : he might have been distinguish- 
ed in that barbaric warfare you call an Indian 
campaign ; but here, in this empire, where sol* 


232 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


diering means discipline, self-denial, hardship, 
endurance ! — I was eight years a cadet, mad- 
ame, twelve a sous-lieutenant. I saw the dec- 
oration I should have received given to another. 
The Dienst Kreuz I had won was refused me be- 
cause I had not served twenty years ; and yet, by 
accepting these, and hundreds like them, as the 
inevitable necessities of the service, 1 am what 
now you see me.” 

“ And if Frank will be but patient — ” 

“ He may be a corporal within a year, ma- 
dame,” said the Feld gravely, and with the air 
of a man who had advanced a somewhat bold 
pledge. 

“ But he must be an officer within a week, 
sir,” said Kate, taking the general’s hand within 
her own. “ I seldom ask favors, and as seldom 
are they refused me. The chivalry of Austria 
will surely suffer no attaint for one whose dis- 
tinction it is to be your relative, and a Dalton. 
Nay, dear uncle, this is the first, the very first 
request I have ever made of you. It would 
not be meet for me to say, in your presence, 
what a guerdon is his name for his good conduct.” 

‘ You are too sanguine, madame. You do 
not know this boy.” - ■ , 

“ Every thought of his heart I know — every 
hope that sustains him. He himself has told 
me all his shortcomings.” 

“ His insubordination ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Extravagance ” 

“Yes.” 

“ His days of imprisonment ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ His arrest in irons ?” 

“ All every thing ; and what are they, save 
the boyish excesses of one who, carried away 
by high spirits, and buoyed up by the flattering 
sense of relationship to a great and distinguish- 
ed name, has been led on to follies by the mere 
native warmth of temperament. It is easy to 
see how little he thought of himself, and how 
much of his uncle ?” 

The old general shook his head dubiously. 

“ There, dear uncle,” said she, pressing him 
into a seat before a table with writing materials, 
“ take that pen and write.” 

“Write what, dear child?” said he, with a 
softness very different from his usual manner. 

“ I know nothing of the forms, nor the fitting 
phrases. A.11 I want is that Frank should have 
his sword-knot.” 

“ You have learned the proper word, I see,” 
said he, smiling, while he balanced the pen 
doubtingly in his fingers. “ The colonel of his 
regiment is an Imperial Prince.” 

“ So much the better, uncle. A Hapsburg 
will know how to reward a Dalton.” 

“ So then we begin thus,” said the old gen- 
eral, whose half- suppressed smile showed that 
he was merely jesting with her eagerness : 
“ Imperial Highness. The Cadet Yon Dalton, 
whose distinction it is to be the grand-nephew 
of a very old soldier, and the brother of a very 
young princess—-” 


“ Nay surely this will not do,” said Kate. 

“A very young princess,” resumed the Feld 
as he continued to write, “ who confiding in 
her own captivations and your highness’s gal- 
lantry — ” 

“ This is but jesting with me, uncle, and Fir. 
serious,” said she, poutingly. 

“ And am not I serious too, madame ?” cried 
he, laying down the pen. “ If I ask promotion 
for a boy, whose whole career has been one in- 
fraction of discipline, whose services are all in- 
scribed in the prevot-marshal’s return, is it not 
better that I should press his claims on the mer- 
its of others than dwell upon his own misconduct ? 
My dear child,” said he affectionately, “ there 
are natures that can not bear a too sudden pros- 
perity, as there are indivduals who can not en- 
dure too sudden changes of climate. Our Dal- 
ton blood has a little of this same infirmity. 
Shall I tell you how I won my first step in the 
service. I was at Hohenkirchen when Moreau 
began his celebrated retreat through the defiles 
of the Schwarzwald. The company in which 
I served as a simple corporal occupied a large 
farm-house, on an elevated plateau, above the 
road to Schweinfurt : we could see for miles 
along the valley, and our position was taken up 
to observe the movement of the enemy, and im- 
mediately report when his advanced guard came 
in sight. Our orders also were, to hold the 
place as long as we were able, and delay, as 
much as possible, the enemy’s advance ; in 
other words, if we could retard him by a half 
a day, at the sacrifice of our party, our duty 
would be well done. These unpleasant situa- 
tions arise now and then in war ; but one com- 
fort is, they seldom occur twice to the same 
man ! 

“ The captain who commanded us was an old 
officer, who had borne his slow promotion with 
many a heart-burning, and now resolved, come 
what might, to win his grade. Without waiting 
for the enemy, he took a patrol party, and set 
out to meet them. We never saw them again ! 
Our lieutenant, alike impatient, determined on 
a reconnaissance. He had scarcely been gone 
half an hour, when a quick rattling of fire-arms 
told us that he was engaged with the enemy. 
One man alone returned to tell us that the rest 
had fallen, and that the enemy was approaching 
in force; The command now devolved on me. 

I had been four times passed over in promotion, 
distinct acts of service left unnoticed, and my 
claims as much ignored as if I was the veriest 
dolt. I will not pretend to say that I bore 
these disappointments without pain, but they 
taught me one lesson at least, ‘ that duty is 
above all consideration of self.’ I well knew 
what was expected of us, and resolved, if possi- 
ble, to fulfill it. I prepared at once for a stout 
resistance — a hopeless, of course, but an ob- 
stinate one. Well, I will not imitate the tardi- 
ness of the duty by a similar prolixity : we held 
the farm for two hours, during which the roof 
was twice on fire from the enemy’s shells ; and 
when, at length they stormed the place, our de- 


233 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


fense was reduced to eight men, commanded by 
a corporal with two shot-wounds in his chest. 
We were made prisoners, and carried away to 
Strassburg, from whence I was exchanged under 
a cartel, and came back to my regiment as a 
lieutenant. Had I merely sought promotion, 
madame, and followed the dictates of ambition 
and not of duty, I had perhaps fallen like the 
others. It was in the very forgetfulness of my- 
selt lay my prosperity and my reward.” 

Kate’s eyes sought out Frank, resolved on 
one effort more for her object, but the boy was 
gone. He had contrived to slip away unseen 
during the conversation, and was now waiting 
at the corner of the street, impatient for the gen- 
eral's departure, to return to his sister. 

“I am to have the honor of dining in your 
company to-day,” said the Feld, rising to take 
leave. “Let me hope that my obduracy will 
not weaken your regard for one so proud of 
being your uncle.” 

“ No, uncle,” said she, “ and chiefly since I 
do not believe in the obduracy, and have full 
faith in the affection.” 

With every testimony of regard, they now 
took leave of each other, and the general retired 
as Kate betook herself to her own room. 

She had scarcely left the apartment when the 
archduke entered it. Madame de Heidendorf 
had told him that the princess was there with 
her uncle, and he came expressly to see her. 
“ Gone again,” exclaimed he “ am I never to 
see this mysterious beauty?” while he threw 
his eyes around the room. “ What’s this ad- 
dressed to myself here,” added he, as he caught 
sight of the paper which the Feld had half 
Written. “To his Imperial Highness the Arch- 
duke Franz Albrecht, commanding the Eleventh 
Regiment of Infantry.” Rapidly glancing over 
the few lines, he at once caught their meaning, 
and detected the playful spirit in which they 
were conceived. “ The fair princess must not 
be disappointed in her opinion,” said he, laugh- 
ingly, as he took up the pen and wrote. “ Too 
happy to anticipate the unexpressed wish, the 
Archduke appoints Cadet von Dalton to a Lieu- 
tenancy in the Hussars, of the Wiirtemberg 
Regiment,” and signing his well-known initials 
at the foot, he sealed and addressed the paper 
to the Princesse de Midchikoff. This done he 
left the house, passing as he went a young 
cadet, whose military salute he scarcely noticed, 
nor knew the anxious heart for whose happiness 
he had just provided. 

Young Frank stood respectfully at the salute, 


as the prince passed, and then bounded away 
to rejoin his sister. The drawing-room, how- 
ever, was empty, and it was by mere chance 
that he saw the letter, on which the address 
was scarcely dry. Taking this with him, he 
hastened to her room. “ A letter for you, 
Kate,” cried he, “and with a royal seal, too !” 

“ Poor Frank,” said she coming out to meet 
him. “ That I should have such tidings for 
you! The Feld is obdurate and unyielding. 
He fancies that there is no road to honor save 
the old track he has trod himself.” 

“ I knew as much, Kate. Had I staid longer 
in the room, I could not have refrained from 
bursting out to say, * Hold, sister, dearest, not 
the best grade in all the service is worth so 
much solicitation. I’ll carry the musket while 
I must, and the day they make me an officer 
I’ll smash the sword across my knee and leave 
them !’ ” 

Kate broke the seal of the packet, without 
answering this passionate speech, and then with 
a cry of joy, exclaimed, “Here it is Frank! 
The prince himself has given you the rank, and 
in the Hussars, too !” 

“ Let me see it,” cried the boy ; “ let me 
see it.” And tearing the paper from her hand, 
he read it again and again. “ I scarce know — 
I can scarce believe this real ; but a prince’s 
word — a royal promise, Kate, is surely sacred.” 

“ Of that there can be no doubt, Frank.” 

“ And I am a hussar, and an officer,” said he 
with a burst of delight. “I’d not change with 
the Kaiser this minute, Kate.” 

“ My dear, dear Frank,” said she passing her 
arm around his neck. 

“ And to owe it all to you, my sweet Kate ! 
If any thing could enhance the pleasure of this 
piece of fortune, it is this fact. And such a 
regiment, Kate — the Prince Paul’s. The tu- 
rappe all one mass of gold, and the chako splen- 
did, and their horses the true Hungarian breed 
— the native horse crossed with the Arab ! I 
feel already as if I were in the saddle, and ca- 
reering wildly about. Oh, Kate, what glorious 
news!” 

Again and again, he embraced her in his ec- 
stasy, and she hiding her head upon his shoul- 
der, tried to suppress the burst of emotions which 
filled her heart, for she thought at what a price 
she purchased the^ower she wielded. 

They sat long with hands close locked beside 
each other — neither speaking — each traveling 
his own road of thought; and how wide apart 
they lay ! 


« 


. J V ' ' 

CHAPTER LI. 

“ VIENNA.” 


We can not afford to linger in Vienna, nor 
speak of the week — the most brilliant of all her 
life — Kate passed there. It was the first burst 
of that, ambition which had so long taken pos- 
session of her, and she saw herself, at length, 
in all the pride of her station, and her beauty 
the object of a hundred flatteries. 

Feted at the court, distinguished by the spe- 
cial attentions of the princes, most courteously 
received in all the society of the most exclusive 
capital of Europe, the whirl of pleasure and ex- 
citement as effectually precluded thought as it 
defied reflection. Hitherto she had seen the 
world only as a dependent, or at least as some- 
thing appertaining to Lady Hester, in whose 
caprices she was bound to share, making part- 
nery, as it were, in all her likings and dislikings ; 
but now, she was become the centre around 
which all these attentions revolved, and her 
own will was the directing impulse of every 
action. 

Of all the cities of the Continent, Vienna was 
most remarkable for almost instinctively adopt- 
ing the tone of its court in respect to a distin- 
guished visitor. There was something like in- 
tuition in the way in which they guessed the feel- 
ing of royalty, and as quickly made it their own. 

The restricted limits of the first society, of 
course, made this practicable, as w T ell as the 
fact that all belonging to it were more or less 
engaged in the services of the emperor. Kate 
Dalton was now to enjoy this flattery, and find 
herself, wherever she went, the special object of 
attention. 

At the Hof Theatre — where they played her 
favorite operas ; at the great reviews in the 
Prater, at the balls of the Palace, or the dejeu- 
nes of Schonbrunn, she seemed the occasion of 
the fete, and to do her her Jionor, all appeared 
assembled. Carried away by the triumphant 
delight of pleasure, so associated with power, 
she either forgot at times the price at which her 
greatness had been purchased, or was disposed 
to still the beatings of her heart by the thought, 

“ My destiny is chosen ; it is too late too look 
back.” To have grieved over her lot, besides, 
would have seemed an utter selfishness, seeing 
that she was the means of dispensing such 
happiness to all her family. Her poor father 
placed once more in comfort; Nelly free to | 
follow the dictates of her charming fancy, with- I 
out the alloying sense of toil ; and dear Frank ! 
in all the exuberant joy of his promotion, 
eternally reminding her that she -was his patron- 


ess. The quick clatter of his charger’s hoofs in 
the court-yard, the clank of his sabre as he ran 
up the stairs, were but the glad prelude to his 
daily outpouring of gratitude ! Ay, “ to be sorry 
now, would be but selfish.” 

Such was the philosophy in which she wrapt 
herself; and day after day the feeling gained 
strength within her. It was true therp were 
moments when all the sophistry gave way, and 
her affections flowed full and strong in the deep 
channels of her heart. Then, indeed, she saw 
the emptinesss of all this gorgeous parade — 
how little it gave of real happiness — how sel- 
dom it ever called forth one generous feeling, 
or one high desire, and she wished the Fates 
had dealt otherwise with her. At times, she 
almost longed for the humble home, in all its 
poverty, with nothing but Nelly’s bright smile 
and gentle voice to cheer its solitude ! It may 
have been this conflict — for conflict it was — 
that gave to her demeanor a certain calm dig- 
nity, which, in the critical estimation of society* 
elevated her high above any charge of frivolity 
or capriciousness. She was a thought graver, 
perhaps, than her years ; but the feeling impart- 
ed an indescribable grace to one whose beauty 
was the very type of brilliancy. After all, 
these were but passing clouds ; nor did she ever 
suffer herself to recur to the past, save when 
wayward memories would obtrude uncalled for. 

At last, came a letter from Lady Hester ; 
and, although not a long one, it called up 
thoughts that all her endeavors could not efface 
from recollection. There were, once again, all 
the old familiar names with which she used to 
be so conversant. Lady Hester, however, was 
much changed ; all the capricious irritability of 
the fine lady had given place to a kind of im- 
portunate piety. She had grown “ devote,” and 
her life a string of religious observances. After 
dwelling complacently on the self-imposed round 
of her mortifications and penances, she went, 
on : 

“ D’Esmonde has just returned, and delights 
me by saying that you are quite free from any 
contagion as to the errors of the Greek Church 
Of course, outwardly you must conform ; even 
if Midchikoff did not insist, his coyntrymen 
I would ; but he says that St. Ursula, is the sure 
I recourse in such cases, and mentions the in- 
j stance, of a Nun who took lessons in Spanish 
from the Devil, and by the aid of the blessed 
Ursula, was nothing the worse. 


235 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


t{ I told Jekyl, who left this on Friday, to 
send me an image of St. Ursula, that I might 
forward it to you ; but the careless wretch has 
sent me a statuette of Fanny Ellsler by mistake. 
He discovered his error, however, and has writ- 
ten me a most humble letter, mentioning, by the 
way, that he was doing a ‘ Novena’ for penance, 
and danced the polka all the preceding night, 
with a sharp peg in the sole of his foot. With 
dl his oddity, there is a great deal to like in 
aim. 

“ I have only once heard from the Onslows ; 
their conduct has been too shocking ; they are 
not ruined at all, but got up the story, I verily 
believe, just to destroy my nerves. Sir S. is 
living in Ireland, at that place with the horrid 
name, your father used to talk of, with Sydney ; 
and George has gone to India, a major, I think, 
in some cavalry regiment. At Grounsell’s kind 
suggestion, I have been cut off with a miserable 
allowance of fifteen hundred a year; but even 
with this I am content. St. Brigitta, of Cleves, 
lived on hard peas, and never wore any thing 
but an old sack for the last seventeen }^ears of 
her life ; and Celestine has got a charming pat- 
tern of a capote, a la Cistercine, Which, when 
made of white cashmere, will be perfectly simple 
and very becoming. I wear my hair now always 
in bands, and very low on the face. D’Esmonde 
says I’m the image of the Madonna of Domeni- 
chino, which, you may remember, I always pre- 
ferred to Raphael’s. 

“ Cardinal Eruschetti has been spending a 
few days here, and I can not tell you the charm 
I have felt in his society, contrasted with the 
frivolous dissipation I have been used to. He 
is so suave, and so gentle, so persuasive, with- 
out importunity, and so conciliating withal. — 
Not the least austerity about him ; but at times 
actually gay ! He quite approves of my having 
kept Fripponi as my cook. ‘ A change of cui- 
sine,’ said he, ‘ involves a ehange of digestion, 
a change of temperament, and a moral change ;’ 
alterations far too important to be incurred at 
once. This is so far pleasant, as certainly the 
man is an admirable artist. His Eminence said 
yesterday that the salmi of ortolans was a dish 
fit for the Pope. We drive out, or row, every 
day, on the lake, and I shall be quite lonely 
when he leaves this. I am curious to know if 
you remember a bust of him in the Vatican. 
He was, and indeed is, a remarkably handsome 
man ; and his leg has been modeled 1 can’t say 
how often. He asks me to whom I am writing, 
and begs you will remember him in your pray- 
ers ; how touchingly simple, is it not. 

“I ventured last night on a bit of importunity, 
and asked his Eminence a favor. That poor 
dear Jekyl, you know, is miserably off. His fam- 
ily, all so wealthy, he says, and only allow him a 
few hundreds a year ; and with his generous hab- 
its and wastefulness this must be actual want. 
Well, I asked the cardinal if there might not be 
some way of sending him out as a Missionary 
— like St. Vincent de Paul. I’m certain he’d 
not like the dress nor the bare feet, but he’d be . 


so happy with those charming Tonga islanders, 
who, such is their zeal, actually give four and 
five scalps for a wax image of the Virgin. His 
Eminence hinted that there might be difficulties 
but he’d think of it ! 

“ Your prince passed through here on Tues- 
day on his way to Naples ; he wants to see ‘ La 
Giovina’ dance in that new ballet of ‘ Paradiso” 
They say she is perfectly lovely. The prince 
asked after you, and said something about its 
not being etiquette for him to write to you, qr 
that you should write first, or, I really forget 
what; you know the slurring way he has of 
talking, and how he walks away before he has 
finished. He’s worse than ever, I think, or 
probably it is I that have less patience with 
him now, since you are gone ! 

“ Jekyl told me — in strict confidence, remem- 
ber — that M did not stand well with his 

court, and that there would be nothing wonder- 
ful in the czar’s refusing his leave for the mar- 
riage. What you ought to do in that case I 
can not conceive ; a convent, I suppose, would 
be the only thing. After all, it might probably 
have been as well if you had taken poor George. 
The estate is still a good one, and he has some 
amiable points in his character, and he certainly 
loved you. I never told you the thousand con- 
fessions he made me, nor his entreaties for 
my intercession, but there is no harm now, in 
letting you hear them. It is, however, impos- 
sible to say with whom one could live happily ! 
George begged of me to send him every letter 
you wrote to me, and of course you can use the 
knowledge of the fact at your discretion. 

“Now, for two little commissions, my dear 
Kate, and I have done. I want you to get me 
a case of Tokay from the Teleki estate — mind, 
not Palfi’s, which, his Eminence says, wants 
the oily flavor. Some of the archdukes will 
manage this for you. I’m certain your long 
eye-)ashes have got further than this already. 
The second is, to send me a haunch of Bohemi- 
an venison — Schwartenschild’s, if possible. The 
cardinal says that the fat is become as scarce as 
true piety, and that a well fed buck is as rare as 
a good Christian ! 

“ Are they wearing their corsages pointed at 
the back ? — not that I care, dearest, for I am 
above such vanities, but Celestine wishes to 
know. When you receive the St. Ursula, keep 
her in your own room, and with her face to the 
west ; and so good-by, and, with many prayers, 
believe me, 

“Affectionately yours, Theodosia, 

“ Late Hester Onslow. 

“ Could you, by any chance, send me a good 
miniature of yourself? — perhaps you guess for 
what purpose. Haselquist’s oil picture is too 
large for wffiat I want ; and, besides, is really 
not like you. Even with all its imperfections 
his Eminence sits looking at it for hours of an 
evening, and says he can scarcely fancy any 
thing lovelier. I do not ask after Madame de 

H , for I hate the woman. His Eminence 

has told me such things of her ! But of course 


236 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


you can only make the best of it for the present, 
and get on as well as you can. 

“ D’Esmonde tells me that Frank is a fine 
boy, and very good-looking, but fearfully dis- 
sipated ; but I suppose the service is like the 
Life Guards with us — and what can one expect? 
Apropos to this, Norwood has written to me 
twice some inexplicable nonsense about you, 
which I have not replied to. What does he 
mean by 1 treating a flirt like a flounce ?’ Jekyl 
says that the police have stopped his passport, 
or h3 should have been after you to Vienna. 
This is quite unintelligible to me, and I don’t 
know why 1 repeat it.” 

Never did a frivolous letter give more serious 
thought, nor bring gloomier reflections, than did 
this epistle to Kate Dalton. Her mind dwelt 
far less on the paragraph which concerned her 
own future, than on that which spoke of George 
— his devoted affection and his enduring sorrow ! 
And so it was true that he loved her ! He had 
even confided the avowal to another, and asked 
for aid and counsel. Why had he then con- 
cealed it from herself? Was the fault hers? 
Had her own conduct been the reason ? Had 
her encouragement of any other estranged him, 
or was the teaching of the society in which she 
moved the reason ? Poor fellow ! how unfairly 
had she treated him — even to that very last in- 
cident of their last meeting ! — and now they 
were to meet no more ! No ! Death itself could 
not more effectually separate them than did 
space and destiny ! Even this she felt to be 
better, far better, than the chances of renewed 
intimacy in the world. Lady Hester had not 
told her why she had never divulged her secret ; 
still less to what end she revealed it now, when 
the knowledge must be only misery. The men- 
tion of Norwood, and the vague, half-threat con- 
nected with his name, gave her but little uneasi- 
ness, since her mind had but space for one ab- 
sorbing thought — George loved her ! There 
was the sum of every reflection ; and all the 
world around her, in its splendor or its brill- 
iancy — the tortuous paths of political intrigue 
— the quiet by-ways of home — affection — the 
present and the future — were all as nothing 
when weighed against this one thought. 

If her first impression had been to blame 
Lady Hester for revealing the secret, her second 
was to thank her with her whole heart. She 
remembered D’Esmonde, too, and the reason- 
ings by which he accompanied the delivery of 
the letter ; and she felt that this consciousness 
was a blessing of which no vicissitude could rob 
her — that come what might of disappointment 
or sorrow in life, here, at least, in her heart of 
hearts, was one hoarded treasure to compensate 
for all. If there were but one to whom she 
could confide her secret — with whom she could 
talk over her sorrow — she thought that she 
would be contented. To Nelly, she dared not; 
to Frank she could not speak of it; what, then, 
of Nina? Alas! it was no longer a secret to 
her ! Nina had seen the picture, and although 


nothing in her manner betrayed the slightest 
consciousness, Kate knew her to well not to 
feel herself in her power. 

Nina’s demeanor, however, exhibited nothing 
of insolent triumph ; on the contrary, her manner 
was gentle, even to submissiveness, and some- 
thing almost affectionate seemed to mingle with 
the feeling in which she fulfilled her duties. 
Kate remarked this, and only needed the cour- 
age to take advantage of it. At first, the very 
idea of Nina’s consciousness was torture ; but 
day by day this terror grew weaker, till at last 
she actually wished that the moment of expla- 
nation was over, and that she could pour out all 
her griefs before her. She may have loved, un- 
happily, herself ; and if so will pity me. In any 
case a frank avowal on my' part will show that 
I knew nothing of his heart, and but little of my 
own, till “too late.” We are never to meet 
again, and so-and-so ; in fact, with many a casu- 
istry, she satisfied herself that mere memory 
could never be a sin — that there could be no- 
thing very wrong in looking back as often as the 
future seemed lowering and gloomy. It is hard 
to say if there might not have been some leaven 
of “ pique” in these reasonings. The prince, 
according to Lady Hester, if he had not entirely 
forgotten, was already indifferent about her. 
Some uncertainty of ceremonial prevented his 
writing or hearing from her; and at this very 
moment he was following out the ordinary life 
of dissipation which he led before. Why care 
for him — why even endeavor to nourish an af- 
fection that must be blighted in the end ? Be- 
sides, her marriage was never one of inclination , 
Lady Hester had been most frank in explaining 
the prince’s appreciation of it. As to her own 
reasons for the step, she knew them too well ! 

All that Kate had seen of life in her Florence 
experiences, told her that such cases were the 
ordinary events of the world. Few were hap- 
pily married — disparity of age, inequality of 
condition, incompatible tempers, and a hundred 
other causes, were ever at work. Lady Hester 
used to tell her that nobody was ever satisfied 
with their “ married lot ; the good and right- 
minded only pined under it, the less scrupu- 
lous proclaimed their dissatisfaction to the world, 
and asked for sympathy !” These were the two 
categories that comprehended all her theory. 
Now Kate was quite resolved to be one of the 
former class ; but she saw no reason why she 
ought not to have one “ confidante” of hei 
cares. 

With all the force of these persuasions she 
could not get over the awkwardness of the con- 
fession, and would have given worlds that Nina 
herself would take the first step. That simple- 
minded creature, however, appeared dead to 
every hint or suggestion ; she could never see 
the drift of any remark, save in its most obvi- 
ous sense, and actually pushed Kate’s temper to 
the last entrenchment of patience by pure stu- 
pidity. “ Is it possible — can it be that I am 
deceived, that she has not recognized the minia- 
ture ?” thought Kate. “Is my secret still ia 


237 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


my own keeping ?” As this thought struck 
her every thing appeared to confirm it — the 
girl s manner, devoid of every trait of imperi- 
ousness, and actually humble to servility. “ Oh, 
il I could but be sure of this — if I could know 
that I could bury both my shame and my sor- 
row together !” In this vacillating state of sus- 
pense — one day, all hope and confidence, the 
next, terror and dread, she lived on, till the 
period drew nigh for their departure from Vienna. 

Madame de Heidendorf had delayed beyond 
her intention, in the hope of receiving some 
French news; and Kate eagerly watched the 
post for some tidings from home — for home it 
still was, in every feeling of her heart. 

' l No letters again, Nina ?” said she, despond- 
ently, as the maid entered the room. 

“ None, madame.” 

“ Have your friends forgotten you, Nina, as 
well as mine appear to have done ?” 

“ Nina has but few friends, madame ; and 
still fewer would think of writing to her.” 

“ Poor Nina !” said Kate, affectionately ; and 
the blood rushed to the girl’s face at the words, 
and her eyes flashed with an expression of sud- 
den passion. 

“No pity, madame ! — no pity !” cried she, 
with a voice full of emotion, “ or I may forget 
myself — forget myself and you also !” And, 
with these words she hurried from the room, 
without waiting for more. Kate sat, shocked 
and abashed by the girl’s violence ; and yet 
neither daring to reprove her nor even remon- 
strate with her. What abject slavery was this 
to feel ! How mean did she seem to her own 
heart ! — what rottenness was within that gilded 
splendor by which she was surrounded ! Where 
was the ambitious envy with which she once 
looked up to the rich and powerful, now ? 
Where that intense desire to be among the great 
and the titled ? and with whom would she not 
have changed conditions — even to Nina herself? 

It is not weak of heart and low of courage 
that one should face the great Journey of Life. 
Its trials and crosses, even to the most fortunate, 
demand all that we can summon of Hope and 
Energy. And yet so was it that she was about 
to begin the road — the long and dreary road 
before her ! As she sat thus musing, a great 
noise was heard from the street without. She 
arose and opened the window. The whole 
Platz was crammed with people, eagerly talk- 
ing and gesticulating. A surging, waving mo- 
tion, too, seemed to sway them ; and at length 
she could detect that they were slowly proceed- 
ing onward toward the gate of the city. The 
deep roll of a drum then turned her attention, 
and, in the far distance, she saw the glancing 
bayonets of an infantry column as they ad- 
vanced. > 

Military spectacles are of too frequent recur- 
rence in Vienna to create much surprise or ex- 
citement, and yet evidently, from the looks and 
gestures of the people, they were both present 
here. The band of a regiment struck up the 
national hymn of Austria, and as the proud 


notes swelled into the air, a dark body of Ty- 
rolese Jagers poured into the Platz. Still there 
was no enthusiasm, of the people. They listen- 
ed to the loyal sounds in cold apathy. To the 
Tyrolese succeeded a Grenadier battalion, after 
which came a long, dense column of infantry of 
the line — their knapsacks on their backs, and 
their bread rations strapped above them. Be- 
hind these was the artillery — the long-tailed 
black horses giving a solemn look to the proces- 
sion, as its clanking sounds fell mournfully on 
the ear. From the wide Platz they now moved 
on, and passing out of the Kortner Gate defiled 
into the “ Glacis.” But a moment before and 
that immense space was empty ; and now, from 
every avenue of the city, troops came pouring 
in like rivers to the sea. The black-plumed 
hunters from Tyrol, the gigantic Croat Grena- 
diers, the swarthy Bohemian Cuirassiers, and 
the white-cloaked Dragoons of Austria — all 
were seen advancing and forming as if in battle 
array. While Kate’s eye ranged eagerly over 
the field in search of the blue uniform of the 
Hungarians, Madame de Heidendorf entered 
the room with an open letter in her hand. 

“What can this mean?” asked Kate, anx- 
iously. “ It is surely not a mere review ?” 

“Far from it, madame,” said the countess, 
imposingly ; “ the great drama is about to be- 
gin. News has come that Italy is in open 
revolt, and fresh troops are to be dispatched 
thither with all speed — twelve thousand are to 
march to-day, eight more to-morrow.” 

“ And Frank — ” 

She stopped abashed by the disdainful expres- 
sion of Madame de Heidendorf’s face. 

“ Your brother’s regiment, madame, will form 
part of the force, and he will, of course, con- 
tribute the importance of his presence ! How 
happily constituted must be the mind that can 
turn from the grand theme of a whole nation’s 
destiny to the petty fortunes of a corporal or a 
sous-lieutenant.” 

“And yet so it is,” replied Kate, boldly; 
“ dear Frank is nearer to my heart than all 
that I see yonder. Oh, yes, madame,” cried 
she, replying to the glance of scorn the count- 
ess bestowed, “ It is quite true. Mine is an 
ignoble spirit; my affections are linked with 
lowly objects — would that my ambitions had 
never risen above them !” 

What reply Madame de Heidendorf might 
have given to this speech, so much more daring 
than any she had uttered before, there is no 
knowing, when Frank burst into the room and 
clasped his sister in his arms. 

“ I have but a moment, Kate, and we are off 
— -off to Italy ;” and then, seeing the countess, 
the boy bowed courteously, and apologized for 
his abrupt entrance. “Count Stephen has got 
the command and placed me on his staff.” 

“ I hope you may merit this proof of his 
confidence, sir,” said Madame de Heidendorf, 
haughtily. 

“Frank will be a brave soldier, madame,” 
broke in Kate. “ He is a Dalton.” 


< 


238 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


He must be true as well as brave. Fidelity 
is needed now as much as valor.” 

“And who will dare to question mine?” 
cried Frank; and then, as if impatient that he 
should have been led away from a dearer 
theme, he placed his arm within Kate’s and 
drew her toward the window. “I had so much 
to say to you, my dearest sister : I have been 
thinking of nothing but you — and — and — what 
you told me. I would break off this match — it 
is not too late — you are only betrothed.” 

“ Oh, no, no, Frank — do not give me such 
counsels. I am pledged in word and bound in 
honor. I have taken a solemn vow.” 

“ But you have been deceived — I know you 
have ; enough that I see such a woman as that 
your companion. 1 tell you again, you must 
t>reak off.” 

“ I can not — I can not.” 

“ Then, by Heaven ! I will do it myself. It 
surely is not for all the glitter of this state and 
pomp that you would sell your affections ? These 
gauds have not corrupted your heart already ? 
No, no, I read you better than that. Listen to 
my plan, then — do not leave this till you hear 
from me. If this lady — I do not know her 
name — insists on your departure, be as per- 
emptory, and say that you wish to see your 
family first. You are not a slave, and can not 
be coerced.” 

“I will hear no more of this, Frank — the 
very thought is maddening. No, no, Frank ; if 
you would be my friend, teach me how to fulfill 
my duty, my sworn, pledged allegiance — do not 
seek to shake my faith, nor make me less res- 
olute in honor.” • 

“It is then as I feai’ed,” cried he, passion- 
ately ; “ these cursed bribes have bought you. 
Oh ! it is not thus Nelly would have been won.” 

“I know it — I know it well,” cried she, 
bursting into tears ; “ but I never was like 
.her.” f 

“ But you were, and you are, dearest,” said 
he, kissing her forehead, “ our own sweet Kate, 
that we were all so proud of. Oh ! forgive me 
if I said what could hurt you, for I would pour 
out my heart’s blood to serve or to save you.” 

There was a mournful emphasis on the last 
two words, which bespoke their deep meaning ; 
and now, locked in each other’s arms, they 
wept bitterly. 

“ As the Field-Marshal Yon Auersberg has 
just ridden into the Palace, his aid-de-camp 
/ought probably to dry his tears, and receive 
him,” said Madame de Ileidendorf, as she sail- 
ed proudly out of the room. 

“You heard that, Kate? — you heard what 
she said to me ? — think, then, what kindness 
and sympathy she will feel for you!' 1 ' 1 said the 
boy, as he dashed his hand indignantly against 
his forehead. Was I not right about these Rus- 
sians ?” 

“ Come, Frank, let us go to uncle Stephen,” 
said Kate, trying to smile and seem at ease, 
and hand-in-hand they descended the stairs to- 
gether. The drawing-room into which they I 


now entered was filled with officers of different 
arms of the service ; among whom Count Dal- 
ton stood conspicuous, both from his size and 
the soldier-like character of a figure, that not 
pven old age seemed able to impair. 

“ Plow provoking, my sweet niece,” said he, 
taking Kate’s hand between both his, “ now to 
part, just as I was learning the happiness of 
knowing you. Here are all these gentlemen 
grumbling and complaining about leaving their 
homes and families, and yet I’ll wager there is 
not one among them carries away a heavier 
heart than I do. Come into this room, my 
dear; let us have five minutes together;” and 
Kate took his arm, while he led her forward. 
Madame de Heidcndorf, meanwhile, seated her- 
self on a sofa, and summoned the most distin- 
guished officers of the party to inform her as 
to all that was going forward. 

It was one of her favorite affectations to be 
deeply versed in military tactics, not that^ she 
acknowledged herself deficient in any art or 
science ; but soldiering was her strong point. 
She therefore questioned and cross-questioned 
these unhappy gentlemrn at great length. 

“ You have no mortars ? Do I hear you 
aright, Colonel Ivabowsky? No mortars?” 

“ None, madame.” 

“ And how, may I ask, do you mean to re- 
duce Milan to ashes ?” 

This was a very puzzling question ; and she 
repeated it in a still more commanding tone. 

“ Perhaps that may not be deemed desirable, 
madame,” modestly insinuated another officer. 

“Not desirable, sir ? You said, not desira- 
ble. Why, really, I shall begin to fancy I ought 
to go to school again in military matters. Are 
yom aware, sir, it’s the very centre of these 
wretches ; that it is fed from Switzerland and 
Piedmont with all that is infamous in political 
doctrine ? Milan must be bombarded, sir !” 

The colonel bowed courteously to an opinion 
expressed with so much authority. 11 

“You’ll find at least that the field-marshal 
will be of my opinion,” continued she. “ As a 
military position, it is worth nothing.” 

“ But as a capital city, madame,” mildly in- 
terposed the colonel. 

“ The old story,” said she, contemptuously. 
“ Women and children !” 

“ Most legitimate objects of protection, I trust, 
madame.’* 

But she turned contemptuously away, as if 
controversy with such an adversary was beneath 
her. 

“ We have three rocket-batteries, madame,” 
interposed a staff-officer, desirous of offering 
himself to her notice. 

“I hope you’ll use them with effect, sir. I 
envy you the pleasure of seeing them plunging 
amidst that vile mob it is the fashion to call the 
people nowadays.” 

“ I hope We shall do our duty, madame,” 
said an old, stern-looking major, who felt little 
flattered at this interference. 

“ I should like to see more chivalry- 


more 


I 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ardent devotion in the defenders of a monarchy,” 
said the countess. “ I can understand coldness 
in the lower classes, but that the well-born and 
the noble should be apathetic and slow to move, 
is beyond my comprehension.” 

“Bey’m Blitzen,” retorted the major, “that 
is not bad ! Here we are going to shed our 
blood for the Kaiser, and we are told that it is 
not enough without we are born coitnts and 
barons.’* * '( v ! 

“What is it, Heckenstein?” said Count Dal- 
ton, as he entered the room, .and laid his hand 
familiarly on the others shoulder. “I have sel- 
dom seen you look so angry.” 

But the old soldier turned away without a 
reply. * ' f . 

u Madame de Heidendorf,” said the old gen- 
eral, “ I know not what you have said to offend 
a,n old tried servant of the emperor — a soldier 
cf Wagram and Austerlitz — a faithful follower, 
when the fortunes of this great empire were at 
the lowest. But, believe me, these are not times 
to flout loyalty and despise fidelity.” 

“The times are worse than I thought them,” 
said the countess, “ when these principles have 
infected such men as Count Dalton. I had cer- 
tainly hoped that this young relative would 
have received a very different lesson at his out- 
set in life, nor can I wonder if such teachings 
end in evil. Here is the archduke. How I 
wish his highness had come a little earlier.” 

As she spoke, the prince entered, with all 
the careless ease of his ordinary manner. It 
was impossible to detect from his countenance 
whether he regarded the event as a serious 
one, or simply one of those popular commo- 
tions which are ever occuring in a large em- 
pire. 

“ I know you are discussing politics, or 
something akin to them,” said he, laughingly. 
“ Madame de Heidendorf has her ‘ cabinet 
countenance’ on ; Auersberg is looking as fierce 
as a field-marshal ought to do when contradict- 
ed. Come, general, present me to the princess. 
It is an honor I have been long desiring. How 
tired you must be of all this, madame,” said he 
to Kate. “ Such wise people as will not talk 
gossip — such high-minded souls as never will 
condescend to say a good thing, or even hear 
one, are insupportable.” And, seating himself 
beside her, he rattled on about Vienna, its 
society, and its pleasures, with all the ease 
and flippancy of a young fashionable of the day, 
while, in an attitude of deep respect, not un- 
mixed with a dash of impatience, stood the old 
count before him. 

“What does Auersberg want to tell us?” 
said the prince at last, looking up in the old 
general’s face. 

“ To say adieu, your royal highness.” 

« You don’t go with the troops, surely ?” 
said the duke, laughing. 

“At. the head of my own regiment, your 
roval highness.” 

“ Ah, by-the-by, the Auersbergs are in your 
Drigade. Very proper that. And is this my < 


239 

'protege ?' 1 ' 1 said he, taking Frank’s arm, and draw- 
ing him forward. “ There’s your best exam- 
ple, sir. Be only as a good a soldier, and the 
name of Dalton will be a title of nobility among 
us. Good-by, lieutenant. General, farewell. 
Give that ‘canaille’ a lesson quickly, and come 
back to us as soon as you can.” 

Kate rose and followed Frank out of the 
room. For a few seconds they were closely 
locked in each other’s arms, without speaking. 
“Oh, Frank, dearest! when are we to meet 
again — and how ?” cried she, passionately. 

“In pride and happiness, too, Kate,” said the 
boy, joyfully. “ I have no fears for the future. 
But what is this, sister dearest — gold?” 

“Do not refuse me, Frank. It is the only 
happiness left me.” 

“ But this is the Russian’s, Kate.” 

“ No, believe me, it is not. Count Stephen 
has made me his heir ; he has given me all his 
fortune. Even good luck can come too late !” 
said she, with a sigh. 

“ Do not leave this till I write to you, Kate. 
I will do so very soon — that is, if I can ; but 
these are anxious times. You know Kate” — 
here the boy whispered in a voice low and 
tremulous from agitation — “you know, Kate, 
that I only left the ranks a couple of days ago. 
I can tell, then, better than all these great folk, 
what soldiers think and say ; they are not as 
they used to be. Lead them against the 
Frenchman, and they will fight as they have 
ever fought, but if it be to fire on their own 
townfolk — to charge through streets, where they 
lounged along, hand-in-hand with the people, 
like brothers — they will not do it.” 

“This is very alarming, Frank. Have you 
told the count ?” 

“ No : nor would I for worlds. What ! be- 
tray my comrades, and be called, on before a 
court-martial to say who said this, and what 
man said t’other.” 

“ But could you not, at least, give him some 
warning ?” 

“ And be ordered from his presence for the 
presumption, or told that the “Feld” would as 
soon believe that this earth was cut adrift*' to 
w T ander at hazard through all space, as that 
treason should lurk behind an Austrian uniform. 
It would be an evil hour for him who should 
dare to tell him so.” 

“ Oh, Frank, how terrible is all this !” 

“ And yet I do not despair ; nay, Kate, but 
I am even more hopeful for it ; and, as Walstein 
says, if the empire halt so long behind the rest 
of Europe, she must one day or other take a 
race to come up with it.” 

“ And is Walstein a — a — ” she stopped. 

“ No he’s very far from a democrat or a re- 
publican. He’s too well born, and too rich, 
and too good-looking, to be any thing but a 
monarchist. Oh, if you but saw him ! But 
hark! there are the trumpets! here come the 
‘ Wiirtemebrgs and there’s my charger, Kate. 
Is he not splendid? — a Banat horse, all bone 
and sinew.” 


240 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ How I should like to have been a man and 
a soldier,” said she, blushing deeply. 

“ There, that’s Walstein ; that’s he with the 
scarlet dolman !” cried Frank ; but he’s coming 
over ; he sees us. No ; he’s passing on. Did 
you see him Kate ; did you remark him ?” 

“ No, Frank, dearest, I see nothing but you 
— my own fond brother.” And she fell upon 
his neck, weeping. 

“Herr lieutenant!” said a hussar, with his 
hand to his cap. 

“ Yes, I’m ready; I’m coming! and with 
one long last embrace he tore himself away, 
springing down the stairs in mad haste. 

“ Madame de Heidendorf is good enough to 
say she will come and see the troops defile from 
the glacis,” said the archduke to Kate, as, still 
overwhelmed with sorrow, she stood where 
Frank had left her. “ Perhaps you would do 
us the honor to come also?” 

Kate accepted the invitation at once, and 
hurried to her room for a bonnet. 

“ Not that one, madame la prinpesse,” said 
Nina, eagCrly; “the yellow with black lace, 
rather ; the national colors will be a flattery to 
his royal highness.” 

“ What a coquette you are Nina.” 

“ And how irresistible would madame, be, 
were she to condescend to be even a little of 
one,” said Nina, smiling. 

“ Perhaps I may yet,” said Kate, half sighing 
as she spoke ; and Nina’s dark eyes sparkled 
as she heard her. “ But what do you mean by 
coquetry, Nina ?” asked she after a pause. 

“It may mean much, madame, or very little. 
With such as I am, it may be a rose-colored 
ribbon ; with madame la princesse, it may be 
the smile that wins royalty. Coquetry, after 
all, is a mere recognition of admiration. An 
old Spanish dramatist says, ‘That a glance from 
bright eyes is like the hoisting of an ensign to 
acknowledge a salute.” 

“ Plow you run on, Nina, and how ashamed 
I feel when I catch myself afterward thinking 
over your words.” 

Nina laughed merrily at this confession, while 
she opened the door for Kate to pass out. In 


a moment after, Kate was seated beside the 
archduke, and Madame de Heidendorf followed 
in another carriage. 

The archduke was neither very good looking 
nor agreeable. His manners were not remarka- 
ble for any peculiar elegance, nor was there in his 
air and bearing any of that special charm which 
very often seems the prerogative of royal per- 
sonages; and yet it would have been excessively 
difficult to persuade Kate of all this, as she 
drove along the streets, crowded with uncover- 
ed heads. The clank of the escort that rode at 
either side, the quick roll of the drum, and the 
rush oqt of the guard to salute as he passed, 
created a sensation of pleasure in her mind like 
the enjoyment of a delighted child. Oh, if Nelly 
could but see her now ! — if dear old papa were 
but there to look at her — and Hanserl ! — little 
Hans, that loved the Hapsburg House as he 
loved the Patron Saint of his own village ! 

It was, indeed, worth something to taste of 
splendor like this ! And now she issued forth 
into the spacions glacis, glittering with thou- 
sands of bayonets, and trembling under the 
tramp of the moving squadrons. The whole 
line saluted as he drove slowly past — band 
after band taking up the sounds, till the proud 
hymn of Austria filled the whole air. The 
soldiers cheered, too, loud and long, for his Im- 
perial Highness was beloved by the army, and, 
like all his House was a thorough soldier. 

“You have never seen our troops under arms 
before?” said he, with a proud elation in his 
look ; “ they are fine fellows, and faithful as 
they are brave !” He was about to say more, 
when the dull roll of a drum was heard along 
the line, and the deep-voiced command from 
regiment to regiment ran, “ Alle nieder zum 
Gebet,” and, at the word, every weapon was 
lowered, and every head drooped forward in 
prayer ! Not a sound, not a whisper was 
heard in that mighty host, till after the expira- 
tion of some minutes, the command once more 
summoned them to arms. Then came the 
word “March,” and with a cheer that made 
the very air vibrate, the troops set out for 
“Italy.” 


CHAPTER LII, 


“THE MARCH.” 

s.-t, . ' i 1 . v • • '•/ 


Is there any enthusiasm like that of a young 
soldier setting forth on his first campaign ? 
High in heart and hope, what can equal the 
glorious pictures his fancy draws of fame and 
honor ? Where will his imagination stop in 
creating scenes of heroic daring and deeds of 
noble chivalry ? In such a mood Frank Dal- 
ton rode along among his comrades, with whom 
at once he became the greatest favorite. Ex- 
plain it how one will, or give up the problem 
in despair, but there is no denying the fact, the 
Irish character has more of high spirits, more 
buoyancy, than that of any continental people. 
Deriving pleasure or amusement from incidents 
that others accept as commonplace, making 
even the rubs and collisions of life subservient 
to his playful humor, the Irishman has resources 
of ready wit and brilliant fancy you may seek 
lor in vain among Germans, or Italians, or even 
Frenchmen. 

The contrarieties of nature, the contradictions 
of character, that puzzle politicians and drive 
political economists half crazy, are delightful 
elements of social intercourse ; and what makes 
the “ Nation” ungovernable, very frequently 
renders the “ Individual” the most easy-tem-r 
pered and manageable man of his set. What 
a boon was it, then, to the gloomy, thoughtful 
Bohemian, to the dreamy German, or the fit- 
ful, passionate nature of the wild Hungarian, 
to chance upon one who had moods of mind 
to suit them all, and stores of amusing thought 
that none of them possessed. Frank was the 
delight of the regiment ; and whether he rode 
in the front or in the rear, a group was certain to 
be gathered round him, listening with eagerness 
to his stories, or enjoying the quaint drollery 
which every passing object or event was sure to 
elicit.r 

Emerging at a bound from the petty annoy- 
ances and vexatious cares of his humble position, 
with all its harassing of debt and poverty, the 
boy was almost wild with delight at his newly- 
won freedom. A thorough “Dalton,” he forgot 
every strait and difficulty he had passed through, 
and thought only of the present, or so much of 
the future as his hopes embellished. Kate’s 
generosity, too, made him feel rich, and he was 
not unwilling to be thought so. That passion 
for ascendency, that over-eagerness to make a 
fair figure before the world, no matter at what 
material sacrifice, or at what heavy cost, was 

Q 


bred “ in his very bone ;” but so inveterately 
Irish is it, that if the nation should ever be visit- 
ed with the income-tax, there is not a man in 
the land who will not over-estimate his means, 
for the sake of the boast to the collector ! 

A wealthy comrade, if he be but free-handed, 
is sure to be popular on a march. The fastidi- 
ousness that would stand aloof from more formal 
attentions, gives way here to the chances of the 
road ; and civilities that would elsewhere imply 
obligation, are now the mere accidents of the 
way. 

To the honor of the Austrian service be it 
said, “Tuft-hunting” is not to be found there. 
The officers of a regiment embrace representa- 
tives of every class of the empire, from the 
haughtiest names of Europe down to the sons 
of the humblest peasant ; and yet the “ Cama- 
raderie” is perfect. Very probably there is no- 
thing more contributes to this than the absence 
of all secrecy as to each man’s resources. The 
prince is known to be rich ; the son of the little 
Burgher, or Amtmann, is equally known to be 
poor. Nothing is expected from any above his 
means, and no disgrace attaches to narrow for- 
tune. If, therefore, Frank was not surrounded 
by shrewd-witted adventurers, eager to make 
the most of his extravagance, he was not the 
less exposed to the flattering' acknowledgments 
his generous habits evoked, and the vanity that 
comes of being distinguished among one’s fcl- 
lows. To be sure, this was his father's fail- 
ing, and his grandfather’s before him! Frank, 
then, entertained all the officers of his squadron 
on the march, practicing a hundred little de- 
vices and surprises for them. Now, it was a 
cold luncheon, laid out in a wood at noonday; 
now, it was a smoking supper in a village, where 
even the generals were fain to munch “Com- 
missary rations.” Even the soldiers of his 
“ Zug” participated in this liberality, arid many 
a flask of wine was pledged to the health of the 
young lieutenant. As if to make him perfectly 
happy, the old count, his uncle, was obliged to 
hurry forward, and thus Frank was relieved 
: from the constraint of the only one whose pres- 
ence could have imposed reserve. 

It was in the boundless freedom of this liberty, 
unchecked by prudence, unrestrained by fear 
of consequences, Frank’s lavish nature knew 
no bounds. He wrote to Vienna for horses of 
high price ; he ordered carriages and liveries to 


242 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


be sent after him. The very surprise his ex- j 
travagance excited was as incense that he 
gloried in. How many a generous nature has 
been wrecked by stupid admiration ! How 
many a true heart been corrupted by the vul- 
garity of notoriety ! 

What will the Dalton do next ? what has the 
fellow in his head now? were surmises that 
he never heard without delight, and stimulated 
him to new efforts to create astonishment. Ire- 
land, too, so remote from all their knowledge— 
that far-away island — furnished many a theme 
for wonder, and he repeated, with ecstasy, sev- 
eral of his father’s stories of their former great- 
ness and the barbaric splendor in which they lived. 
How easy is self-deception, and what a strange 
cheat is that a man can practice on himself ; 
but so was it ; he actually forgot the long years 
of their obscure poverty, all their hard trials and 
distresses, the penury of their daily life — every 
thing ! — and could only think of Kate in all her 
splendor, and himself in every indulgence of his 
fancy. And yet he loved his father and Nelly, 
too, loved them both dearly. He would have 
given worlds that the old man could have seen 
him as he rode at the head of his men. He 
often felt his eyes grow dim as he fancied the 
burst of delight it would have caused him. And 
poor Nelly ! how he pictured her features glow- 
ing with admiration, and yet trembling from 
agitation, for he thought of all her warnings. 

It is a singular fact, that in the short interval 
before the tremendous events of the last great 
European convulsion, the aristocratic influence 
seemed at its very highest point. Never in 
each state of the Continent were the claims of 
family more regarded, nor the sway of proud 
names more submissively recognized. Like the 
fever-flush before death, it deceived many who 
beheld it ! In the eyes of his astonished com- 
rades, young Dalton perfectly represented this 
character. Rich, well-born, brave, and eccen- 
tric, his seemed indeed an enviable lot in life. 
Happy for him if the deception had stopped short 
with them ! Unluckily, however, it extended to 
himself, and he at last believed every fiction 
that his own brain suggested. 

In this wild delirium, of the day-dream he 
rode along through the deep glens and valleys 
of the Tyrol, along the banks of the rapid “ Inn,” 
through the glorious vale of Meran, and at last 
gained the great road which, through Trent and 
Rovoredo, debouches on the Lago di Guarda. 
Here a dispatch from Vienna overtook them, 
with orders that a small party should be sent 
off under some officer of intelligence to examine 
the condition of the Stelvio pass, the highest of 
all the Alpine roads of Europe, and which, 
crossing from South Tyrol, descends directly 
into Italy, by the Lake of Como. 

Although it was still early, fresh snows were 
said to have fallen on that elevated road,, and it 
was an important question whether it were 
longer practicable for the transit of artillery, 
Frank was delighted to be selected for this duty 
— a separate command, no matter how small or 


insignificant, had something adventurous and 
independent about it that pleased him. There 
was a dash of peril, too, in the enterprise, for 
already the Valteline and the Brianza were said 
to be overrun by bands of patriot troops, raising 
contributions for the war, and compelling others 
to take up arms. 

Frank’s instructions were, however, to ex- 
amine and report upon the road, and, avoiding 
all possible collision with the enemy, either to 
unite with any Austrian brigade, he could reach, 
or,, if compelled, to retire upon the Tyrol. 
Some of his comrades pitied him for being 
selected for this lonely duty, others envied ; 
but all regretted his departure, and with many a 
warm wish for a speedy meeting, and many a 
pledge of affection, they saw him depart on his 
enterprise. 

In the small “ Zug” of twenty men under his 
command, there was a young Hungarian cadet, 
who, although of good family and birth, Frank 
remarked never to have seen by any chance in 
society with the officers. Ravitzky was a hand- 
some, daring-looking fellow, with that expression 
of mingled sadness and intrepidity in his face so 
peculiarly Hungarian. He was the best horse- 
man in the regiment, and a thorough soldier in 
his look and carriage. It had often puzzled 
Frank why a youth with such advantages had 
not been promoted. On the one or two occa- 
sions, however, on which he asked the question, 
he had received evasive or awkward replies, 
and saw that the inquiry was at the least an 
unpleasant theme among his comrades. 

Frank Dalton was well pleased at the oppor- 
tunity now offered to know something more of 
this young soldier, almost the only one under 
his command who could speak any other lan- 
guage than Hungarian. Ravitzky, however, 
although perfectly respectful in his manner, was 
cold and reserved, showing no desire for an in- 
timacy at which he might be supposed to have 
felt proud. Without actually repelling, he seem- 
ed determined to avoid nearer acquaintanceship, 
and appeared always happier when he “ fell 
back,” to exchange a few guttural words with 
his comrades, than when called to “ the front,” 
to converse with his officer. 

Frank was piqued at all this; he saw that 
neither his rank, his supposed wealth, nor his 
assumed position, imposed upon the cadet; and 
yet these were the very claims all his brother- 
officers had acknowledged. Amazed at this 
wound to his self-love, he affected to forget him 
altogether, or only remember him as one of the 
soldiers in his command. So far from seeming 
displeased, Ravitzky appeared more at his ease 
than before, and as if relieved from the worry 
of attentions that were distasteful to him. This 
conduct completed the measure of Frank’s in- 
dignation, and he now began actually to hate 
the youth on whom he practiced all the possible 
tyrannies of military discipline. These Ravitzky 
bore without seeming to be aware of them, dis- 
charging every duty with an exactitude that 
made punishment or even reproof impossible 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 243 


It is likely that if Frank had not been cor- 
rupted by all the adulation he had so lately re- 
ceived — if his self-esteem had not been stimu- 
lated into an absurd and overweening vanity, 
that he would have read this youth’s character 
aright, and have seen in him that very spirit of 
independence which once he himself sought to 
display, albeit by a very different road ! Now, 
however, he received every thing in a false 
light. The reserve was insolence, the coldness 
was disrespect, the punctuality in duty, a kind 
of defiance to him. How often he wished that 
he had never taken him ; the very sight of him 
was now odious to his eyes. 

Austrian troops enjoy so much of freedom on 
a march, that it is difficult often for the most 
exacting martinet to seize opportunities for the 
small tyrannies of discipline. F rank’s ingenuity 
was now to be tried in this way, and, it is but 
fair to confess, not unsuccessfully. He com- 
pelled the men to appear each morning as 
smart as if on parade — their carbines in the 
bandoliers, and not slung at the saddle — he 
inspected every belt, and strap, and buckle, 
and visited even the slightest infraction with a 
punishment. Ravitzky accepted all this as the 
ordinary routine of discipline, and never, even 
by a look, appeared to resent it. Tyranny 
would seem to be one of the most insidious 
of all passions, and, if indulged in little things, 
invariably goes on extending its influence to 
greater ones. 

At Maltz, a new occasion arose for the 
tormenting influences of this power, as the 
military post brought several letters from Vienna 
— one of which was addressed to the Cadet 
Ravitzky. It was about a week before, Frank 
was indignantly complaining to his sister of the 
shameless violation of all feeling exhibited in 
opening and reading every soldier’s letter. He 
was eloquently warm in defending such humble 
rights, and declaimed on the subject with all 
the impassioned fervor of an injured man ; and 
yet so corrupting is power, so subtle are the 
arguments by which one establishes differences 
and distinctions, that now he himself saw no- 
thing strange nor severe in exercising this 
harsh rule toward another. 

He was out of temper, too, that morning. 
The trim and orderly appearance of the men 
gave no opportunity of a grumble, and he 
strutted along on foot in front of his party, only 
anxious for something to catch at. On turning 
suddenly around, he saw Ravitzky with his 
open letter before him, reading. This was a 
slight breach of discipline on a march where 
infractions far greater are every day permitted ; 
but it offered another means of persecution, 
and he called the cadet imperiously “To the 

front.” . . 

“ Are you aware, cadet,” said he, of the 
general order regarding the letters of all who 
serve in the ranks?” 

“I am, Herr lieutenant,” said the other, 
flushing deeply as he saluted him. 

“Then you knew that you were commit- 


ting a breach of discipline in opening that 
letter ?” 

“ As the letter is written in Hungarian, Herr 
lieutenant, I felt that to show it to you could be 
but a ceremony.” 

“ This explanation may satisfy you, sir ; it 
does not suffice for me. Hand me your letter.” 

Ravitzky grew scarlet at this command, and 
for an instant he seemed as though about to dis- 
pute it ; but duty overcame every personal im- 
pulse and he gave it. 

“ I see my own name here !” cried Frank, as 
the one word legible to his eyes caught him. 
“ How is this?” 

Ravitzky grew red and pale in a second, and 
then stood like one balancing a difficulty in his 
own mind. 

“I ask again, how comes a mention of me in 
this document?” cried Frank, angrily. 

“ The letter, Herr lieutenant, is from my 
cousin, who, aw r are that I was serving in the 
same troop with you, offered to make me known 
to you.” 

“ And who is this cousin with whom I am so 
intimate?” said Frank, proudly. 

“ Count Ernest Walstein,” said the other, 
calmly. 

“ What, is he your cousin ? Are you really 
related to Walstein?” 

The other bowed slightly in assent. 

“ Then how is it, with such family influence, 
that you remain a cadet? You have been two 
years in the service?” 

“ Nearly four years, Herr lieutenant,” was 
the quiet reply. 

“Well, four years, and still unpromoted: 
how is that?” 

Ravitzky looked as if unable to answer the 
question, and seemed confused and uneasy. 

“ You have always been a good soldier. I 
see it in your £ character roll ;’ there is not one 
punishment recorded against you.” 

“ Not one !” said the cadet, haughtily. 

“ There must, then, be some graver reason 
for passing you over?” 

“ There may be,” said the other, with a 
careless pride in his manner. 

“Which you know?” said Frank, interroga- 
tively. 

“Which I guess at,” said Ravitzky. 

“Here is your letter, cadet,” said Frank, 
handing it back to him. “ I see you will not 
make a confidant of me, and I will not force a 
confession.” 

Ravitzky took the letter, and, saluting with 
respect, was about to fall back, when Frank 
said : 

“I wish you would be frank with me, and 
explain this mystery.” 

“ You call it mystery, sir?” said the other, in 
astonishment. “ You are an Irishman born, and 
call this a mystery?” 

“ And why not. What has my birth to do 
with it ?”• 

“ Simply that it might have taught the ex- 
planation. Is it truth, or am I deceived in 


244 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


believing that your nation is neither well re- 
ceived nor kindly met by the prouder country 
with which you are united ; and that, save 
when you stoop to blush at your nationality, 
you are never recognized as claimants for either 
office or advancement?” 

u This may have been the case once to some 
extent,” said Frank, doubtingly, “but I scarce- 
ly think such differences exist now.” 

“Then you are more fortunate than we,” said 
Ravitzky. 

“ But I see men of your nation the very high- 
est in military rank — the very nearest to the 
sovereign ?” 

“ Theirs be the shame, then,” said Ravitzky. 
“ There are false hearts in every land.” 

“ This is a puzzle to me I can not compre- 
hend.” 

“I’ll tell you how to understand it all, and 
easily too, Herr lieutenant. Take this letter 
and forward it to the Council of War ; declare 
that Cadet Ravitzky acknowledged to yourself 
that he was a Hungarian, heart and soul, and, 
save the eagle on his shako, had nothing of 
Austria about him. Add, that a hundred thou- 
sand of his countrymen are ready to assert the 
same ; and see if they will not make you an 
Ober-lieutenant and send me to Moncacs for 
life.” He held out the letter as he spoke for 
Frank to take, and looked as proudly defiant as 
if daring him to the act. 

“ You can not suppose I would do this?” 

“ And yet it is exactly your duty, and what 
you took a solemn oath to perform not a week 
back.” 

“ And if there be such disaffection in the 
troops, how will they behave before an enemy ?” 
asked Frank, eagerly. 

“ As they have always done — ay, even in this 
very campaign that now threatens us, where 
men are about to strike a blow for liberty, 
you’ll see our fellows as foremost in the charge 
as though the cause at stake was not their 
own.” 

“ Ravitzky, I wish you had told me nothing 
of all this.” 

“ And yet you forced the confession from me. 
I told Walstein, over and over, that you were 
not suited for our plans. You rich men have 
too much to lose to venture on so bold a game ; 
he, thought otherwise, and all because you were 
an Irishman !” 

“ But I have scarcely ever seen Ireland. I 
know nothing of its grievances or wrongs.” 

“ I believe they are like our own,” said 
Ravitzky. “ They tell me that your people, 
like ours, are warm, passionate, and impatient; 
generous in their attachments, and terrible in 
their hatred. If it be so, and if England be like 
Austria, there will be the same game to play 
out there as here.” 

Frank grew thoughtful at these words; he 
recalled all that the Abbe D’Esmonde had said to 
him about the rights of a free people, and the 
duties of citizenship, and canvassed within his 
own mind the devoirs of his position ; mean- 


while Ravitzky had fallen back to the men and 
taken his place in the ranks. 

“ They’ll not compromise me before an 
enemy,” thought Frank; “that, I may rely 
on.” And with this trustful assurance he 
mounted and rode slowly forward, deeply sunk 
in thought, and far less pleasantly than was his 
wont to be. From all the excitement of his 
late life, with its flatteries and fascinations, , he 
now fell into a thoughtful mood, the deeper 
that it was so strongly in contrast to what 
preceded it. The greater interests that now 
flashed across his mind made him feel the frivol- 
ity of the part he had hitherto played. “ Ra- 
vitzky is not older than I am, and yet how dif- 
ferently does he speculate on the future ! His 
ambitions are above the narrow limits of selfish 
advancement ! and the glory he aims at is not a 
mere personal distinction.” 

This was a dangerous theme, und the longer 
he dwelt upon it, the more perilous did it be- 
come. 

The snow lay in deep drifts in many parts of 
the mountain, and the progress of the little party 
became daily slower as they ascended. Fre- 
quently they were obliged to dismount and lead 
their horses for miles, and at these times Frank 
and Ravitzky were always together. It was 
intimacy without any feeling of attachment on 
either side, and yet they were drawn toward 
each other by some strange, mysterious sympa- 
thy. Their conversation ranged over every 
topic, from the great events which menaced 
Europe to the smallest circumstances of personal 
history; and in all Frank found the cadet his 
superior. It was not alone that his views were 
higher, more disinterested, and less selfish, but 
his judgments were calmer and better weighed. 

11 You want to be a count of the empire, and 
a grand cross of every order of Europe,” said 
Ravitzky, one day to Frank at the close of a 
rather warm discussion. “ I want to see my 
country free, and live an humble soldier in the 
ranks.” This bold avowal seemed to separate 
them still more widely, and it was plain that 
each regarded the other with distrust and re- 
serve. It was after some days of this distance 
that Frank endeavored to restore their intimacy 
by leading Ravitzky to speak of himself, and at 
last ventured to ask him how it came that he 
still remained a cadet, while others, in every 
way inferior to him, were made officers. 

“I have refused promotion some half-dozen 
times over,” said the other. “ As a kaiser ca- 
det, my time of service will expire in a few 
months hence; then I shall be free to leave the 
service. Were I to accept my grade as an offi- 
cer, I should have to take an oath of fidelity to 
the emperor, which I would not, and pledge 
myself to a course that I could not do.” 

“ Then they probably know the reasons for 
which you have declined promotion ?” 

“Assuredly they can guess them,” was the 
curt reply. 

“ You are a strange fellow, Ravitzky, and I 
scarcely understand you.” 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 245 


11 And yet ' there is nothing less a mystery 
than my conduct or my motives,” rejoined he 
proudly. “ My father is a noble, high in the 
service and confidence of the emperor, and al- 
though a Magyar by birth, is Austrian by choice 
and predilection. My sympathies are with my 
countrymen. In obedience to his wishes, I 
have entered this service ; in justice to myself, 
I mean to quit it when I can with honor.” 

“ And for what, or where ?” asked Frank. 

u Who knows ?” said he, sorrowfully. “ Many 
of our nation have gone over the seas in search 
of a new land. Already we are almost as des- 
titute of a home as the Poles. But why talk 
of these things, Herr lieutenant? I may be led 
to say that which it would be your duty to re- 
port — you ought, as it is, to denounce me. 
Have no fears ; my life would always be spared ; 
my family*s fidelity would save me. This is 
one of the glorious privileges of birth,” cried he 
scornfully. “The ‘fusilade’ will be the sen- 
tence for one of those poor fellows yonder, but 
you and I are too well-born for justice to reach.” 


“ Assuredly I'll not quarrel with the privi- 
lege !” said Frank, laughing. 

“ And yet, if I were as rich and as great as 
you are,” said Ravitzky, “ it is exactly what I 
should do ! With your fortune and your rank, you 
want nothing from king or kaiser. Who, then, 
would not strive for the higher rewards that 
only a whole nation can confer ?” 

Frank blushed deeply at the allusion to his 
supposed wealth, but had not the courage to 
refute it. He, however, sought an opportunity 
to turn the conversation to other channels, and 
avoided for the future all mention of every 
theme of politics or party. The mischief, how- 
ever, was done ; he brooded forever in secret 
over all the Hungarian had told him ; while old 
memories of fresh wrongs, as narrated by his 
father long ago, kept recurring and mingling 
with them, till not only the themes excluded 
other thoughts, but that he felt the character 
of his own ambition changing, and new and 
very different hopes succeeding to his former 
ones. - 



CHAPTER LIII. 

v » . . ' . . » ' • t r’.. 

THE SKIRMISH. 


/■ 



At last they reached the summit of the Stel- 
vio, and began the descent of the mountain : and 
what a glorious contrast does the southern as- 
pect of an Alpine range present, to the cold 
barrenness of the north ! From the dreary re- 
gions of snow, they came at length to small 
patches of verdure, with here and there a stunt- 
ed pine-tree. Then the larches appeared, their 
graceful feathery foliage checkering the sun- 
light into ten thousand fanciful shapes, while 
streams and rivulets bubbled and rippled on 
every side — not ice-bound as before — but ca- 
reering along in glad liberty, and with the 
pleasant music of falling water. Lower down, 
the grass was waving as the wind moved on, 
and cattle were seen in herds reveling in the 
oenerous pasture, or seeking shelter beneath 
the deep chestnut-trees, for already, even here, 
the Italian sun was hot. Lower again came 
dark groves of trellised vines ; long aisles of 
leafy Ishadc traversing the mountain in every 
direction, now, curving in graceful bends, now 
in bold zig-zags, scaling the steep precipices, 
and sometimes hanging over cliffs and crags, 
where not even the boldest nand would dare to 
pluck the ruddy bunches ! 

Beneath them, as they went, the great plain 


of Lombardy opened to their view ; that glori- 
ous expanse of wood and waving corn, with 
towns and villages dotting the surface ; while 
directly below, at their very feet as it were, 
stretched the Lake of Como, its wooded banks 
reflected in the waveless water. What a scene 
of beauty was that fair lake, with its leafy prom- 
ontories, its palaces, and its Alpine background, 
all basking under the deep blue of an Italian 
sky ; while perfumes of orange groves, of aca- 
cias and magnolias, rose like an incense in the 
air, and floated upward ! 

Even the hard nature of the wild Hungarian 
— the rude dweller beside the dark-rolling Dan- 
ube or the rapid Theiss — could not survey the 
scene unmoved ; and, dismounting from their 
saddles, the hussars moved stealthily along, as 
if invading the precincts of some charmed re- 
gion. Frank was in no haste to leave so pic- 
turesque a spot, and resolved to halt for the 
night beneath the shade of some tall chestnut- 
trees, where they had sought shelter from the 
noon-day sun. Como was at his feet, straight 
down beneath him was the wooded promontory 
of Bellagio, and in the distance rose the Swiss 
Alps, now tinged with the violet hue of sunset. 
Never was there a scene less likely to suggest 


246 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


thoughts of war or conflict. If the eye turned 
from the dark woods of the Brianza to the calm 
surface of the lake, every thing wore the same 
aspect of peaceful security. Figures could be 
seen seated or walking on the terraces of the 
villas ; gorgeously decked gondolas stole over 
the bay, their gold-embroidered ensigns trailing 
lazily in the water. Equipages and troops of 
horsemen wound their way along the leafy lanes ; 
nor a sight nor sound that did not portend ease 
and enjoyment. 

With all Frank’s ardor for adventure, he was 
not sorry at all this. His orders to fall back, 
in case he saw signs of a formidable movement, 
were too peremptory to be disobeyed, and he 
would have turned away with great reluctance 
from a picture so temptingly inviting. Now 
there was no need to think of this. The great 
dome of the Milan Cathedral showed on the 
horizon that he was not thirty miles from the 
Austrian head-quarters, while all around and 
about him vouched for perfect quiet and tran- 
quillity. 

Tempted by a bright moonlight, and the de- 
licious freshness of the night, he determined to 
push on as far as Lecco, where he could halt 
for the day, and by another night-march reach 
Milan. Descending slowly they gained the 
plain before midnight, and now found themselves 
on that narrow strip of road, which, escarped 
from the rock, tracks the margin of the lake 
for miles. Here, Frank learned from a peasant 
that Lecco was much too distant to reach be- 
fore daybreak, and determined to halt at Varen- 
na, only a few miles off. ! 

This man was the only one that they had 
come up with for several hours, and both Frank 
and Ravitzky remarked the alarm and terror 
he exhibited, as he suddenly found himself in 
the midst of them. 

“Our cloth here,” said the cadet, bitterly, 
“ is so allied to thoughts of tyranny and cruelty, 
one is not to wonder at the terror of that poor 
peasant.” 

“ He said Yarenna was about five miles off,” 
said Frank, who did not like the spirit of the last 
remark, and wished to change the topic. 

“ Scarcely so much ; but that as the road 
was newly mended, w r e should be obliged to 
walk our cattle.” 

“ Did you remark the fellow, while we were 
talking, how his eye wandered over our party ? 
I could almost swear that I saw him counting 
our numbers.” 

‘* I did not. notice that,” said the cadet, with 
an almost sneering tone. “I saw that the poor 
fellow looked stealthily about from side to side, 
and seemed most, impatient to be off.” 

‘'And when he did go,” cried Frank, “I 
could not see what way he took. His ‘Felice 
notte, Signori,’ was scarce uttered when he dis- 
appeared.” 

“ He took us for a patrol,” remarked the 
other, carelessly ; and whether it was this tone, 
or that Frank was piqued at the assumed cool- 
ness of the cadet, he made no further remark, 


but rode on to the front of the party. Shortly 
after this the moon disappeared, and as the road 
occasionally passed through long tunnelings in 
the rock, the way became totally obscured, so 
that in places they were obliged to leave the 
horses entirely to their own guidance. 

“There’s Varenna at last!” said Frank, 
pointing out some lights, which, glittering afar 
oil', were reflected in long columns in the water. 

“ That may still be a couple of miles off,” 
said Ravitzky, “ for the shores of the lake wind 
greatly hereabouts. But there ! did you not 
see a light yonder? — that , may be the village.” 
But as he spoke the light was gone, and al- 
though they continued to look toward the spot 
for several minutes, it never reappeared. 

“They fish by torchlight here,” said Ravitz- 
ky, “and that may have been the light; and 
by the way, there goes a skiff over the water 
at a furious rate ! — hear how the fellows ply 
their oars.” 

The dark object which now skimmed the 
waters must have been close under the rocks 
while they were speaking, for she suddenly shot 
out, and in a few minutes was lost to view. 

“Apparently the clink of our sabres has 
frightened those fellows too,” said Frank, laugh- 
ing, “for they pull like men in haste.” 

“ It’s well if it be no worse,” said the cadet. 

“Partly what I was thinking myself,” said 
Frank. “ We may as well be cautious here.” 
And he ordered Ravitzky with two men to ride 
forty paces in advance, while four others, with 
carbines cocked, were to drop a similar distance 
to the rear. 

The consciousness that he was assuming a 
responsibility made Frank feel anxious and ex- 
cited, and at the same time he was not without 
the irritating sense that attaches to preparations 
of needless precaution. From this, however, he 
was rallied by remarking that Ravitzky seemed 
more grave and watchful than usual, carefully 
examining the road as he went along, and halt- 
ing his party at the slightest noise. 

“Did you hear or see any thing in front?” 
asked Frank, as he rode up beside them. 

“I have just perceived,” said the cadet, 
“ that the boat which half an hour ago shot 
ahead and left us, has now returned, and per- 
sists in keeping a little in advance of us. There ! 
you can see her yonder. They make no noise 
with their oars, but are evidently bent on watch- 
ing our movements. 

“We’ll soon see if that be their ‘tactic,’” 
said Frank; and gave the word to his men 
“ To trot.” 

For about half a mile the little party rode 
sharply forward, the very pace and the merry 
clink of the accoutrements seeming to shake off 
that suspectful anxiety a slower advance sug- 
gests. The men were now ordered to walk 
their horses ; and just as they obeyed the word, 
Ravitzky called out, “ See ! there she is again. 
Tlie winding of the bay has given them the 
advantage of us, and there they are still in 
front !” - t, 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


247 


u After all,” rejoined Frank, “ it may be mere 
curiosity. Cavalry, I suppose, are seldom seen 
in these parts.” 

u So much the better,” said Ravitzky, “for 
there is no ground for them to manoeuvre, with 
a mountain on one hand and a lake on the other. 
There ! did you see that light ? It was a sig- 
nal ol some kind. It was shown twice ; and 
mark, now ! it is acknowledged yonder.” 

“ And where js the boat ?” 

“ Gone,” 

“Let us push on to Varenna; there must be 
some open ground near the village!” eried 
Frank. “ Trot !” 

An older soldier than Frank might have felt 
some anxiety at the position of a party so ut- 
terly defenseless if attacked ; perhaps, indeed, 
his inexperience was not his worst ally at this 
moment, and he rode on boldly, only eager to 
know what and where was the peril he was 
called on to confront. Suddenly Ravitzky halt- 
ed, and called out : 

“ There’s a tree across the road.” 

Frank rode up, and perceived that a young 
larch-tree had been placed across the way, half 
carelessly as it seemed, and without any object 
of determined opposition. 

Two men dismounted by his orders to re- 
move it, and in doing so, discovered that a 
number of poles and branches were concealed 
beside the roeks, where they lay evidently ready 
for use. ... 

“ They’ve had a Tyroler at work here,” cried 
an old corporal of the hussars; “they mean to 
stop us higher up the road, and if we fall back 
we’ll find a barricade here in our rear.” 

“ Over with them into the lake,” said Frank, 
“ and then forward at once.” 

Both orders were speedily obeyed, and the 
party now advanced at a rapid trot. 

They were close to Varenna, and at a spot 
where the road is closely hemmed in by rocks 
on either side, when the sharp bang of a rifle 
was heard, and a shrill cry shouted something 
from the hill-side, and was answered from the 
lake. Ravitzky had but time to give the word 
“ Forward !’’ when a tremendous fire opened 
from the vineyards, the road-side, and the boat. 
The red flashes showed a numerous enemy; 
but, except these, nothing was to be seen. 
“Forward, and reserve your fire, men !” he cried. 
And they dashed on ; but a few paces more 
found them breasted against a strong barricade 
of timber and country carts, piled up across the ; 
way; a little distance behind which rose another j 
barricade ; and here the enemy was thickly post- , 
ed, as the shattering volley soon proved. 

As Frank stood irresolute what course to ! 
take, the corporal, who commanded the rear, 1 
galloped up to say all retreat was cut off in that 
direction, two heavy wagons being thrown across 
the road, and crowds of people occupying every 
spot to fire from. 

“ Dismount, and storm the barricade !” cried 
Frank; and, setting the example, he sprang 
from his saddle, and rushed forward. 


There is no peril a Hungarian, will not dare 
if his officer but lead the way ; and now, in faee 
of a tremendous fire at pistol-range, they clam- 
bered up the steep sides, while the balls were 
rattling like hail around them. 

The Italians, evidently unprepared for this 
attack, poured in a volley, and fled to the cliffs 
above the road. Advancing to the second bar- 
ricade, Frank quickly gained the top, and sprang 
down into the road. Ravitzky, who was ever 
close beside him, had scarcely gained the height, 
when, struck in the shoulder by a ball, he 
dropped heavily down upon the ground. The 
attack had now begun from front, flanks, and 
rear together, and a deadly fire poured down 
upon the hussars without ceasing, while all at- 
tempt at defense was hopeless. 

“ Open a pass through the barricade,” shout- 
ed Frank, “and bring up the horses!” And 
while some hastened to obey the order, a few 
others grouped themselves around Ravitzky, 
and tried to shelter him as he lay. 

“Don’t leave me to these fellows, Dalton,” 
cried he, passionately; “ heave me over into the 
lake rather.” 

Frank now saw that the poor fellow’s che&k 
was torn with a shot, and that his left hand was 
also shattered. 

“ The fire is too heavy, Herr lieutenant ; th® 
men can not open a way for the cattle,” whis- 
pered the old corporal. 

“What’s to be done, then?” asked Frank; 
but the poor corporal fell dead at his side as he 
spoke. The brunt of the conflict was, how- 
ever, at the barricades; for, despairing of any 
prospect of removing the obstacles, many of the 
hussars had ridden recklessly at them, and there, 
entangled or falling, were shot down remorse- 
lessly by the enemy. One alone forced his way, 
and, with Ins uniform bloody and in rags, dash- 
ed up to Frank. 

“ Get the cadet up in front of you,” whisper- 
ed Frank ; and Ravitzky, who was now uncon- 
scious, was lifted into the saddle; while the hus- 
sar grasping him with his strong arms, held him 
against his chest. 

“Forward, now,” said Frank; “on, to the 
first village, and see him cared for.” 

“But you, Herr lieutenant — what’s to beeomc 
of you ?” 

“ I’ll not leave my poor wounded comrades.” 

“ There’s not a living man among them,” 
cried the hussar. “ Come along with us, Herr 
lieutenant ; we may want your help, too.” 

The firing ceased at this moment ; and to 
the wild shouts and din of conflict there succeed- 
ed a dead silence. 

“ Keep quiet — keep quiet — stand close be- 
neath the rock,” whispered Frank ; “ here 
comes the boat.” And, with a slow and meas- 
ured stroke, the skiff neared the shore, about 
twenty paces from where they stood. 

“Pull in boldly,” cried a gruff voice in 
Italian; “there’s nothing to fear now: neither 
man nor horse could survive that fire.” 

“ Would that the great struggle could be ac- 


248 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 



Frank almost fancied he had heard before. 

Lanterns were now seen moving in the space 
between the barricades ; and crowds pressed 
down to examine and pillage the dead. 

“Have you found the officer’s body?” asked 
he of the soft voice. 

“ I suspect the party was under a sergeant’s 
command,” said another. 

“No, no,” rejoined the former; “Giuseppe 
was positive that he saw an officer.” 

“ See that he has not escaped then,” said the 
other, eagerly. “ The tale of this night’s ad- 
venture might be told in two ways at Milan.” 

“ The cadet is dying, sjr ; his head has fallen 
back,” whispered the hussar to Frank. 

“ The lake, Dalton, the lake !” muttered the 
dying man, as he threw his arms around Frank’s 
neck. Frank caught him while he was falling, 
but, overborne by the weight, reeled back 
against the rock. 

“ How many are in the boat ?” whispered 
Frank. 

“ I see but one man, sir,” said the hussar. 

“ Now for it, then,” said Frank ; “ place him 
between us on a carbine, and make for the 
boat.” 

With the energy of a newly inspired hope, 
the man obeyed in an instant ; and carrying 
their wounded comrade, moved stealthily along 
beneath the shadow of the rock. It was only 
as they emerged from this, and gained the little 
gravelly beach, that their figures could be seen. 

“ Be quiet now, men, and leave that fellow 
to me,” said Frank, as he cocked his pistol. 
The clank of the sabres, however, seemed warn- 
ing enough for the crafty Italian, who jumped 
at once into the lake. With a rush, the Hun- 
garian sprang into the skiff, while Frank, seizing 
it by the prow, pushed boldly out. The plunge 
and the splash had, meanwhile, attracted notice, 
and several hurried down to the beach. Frank 
had but time to order his men to lie down, 
when a crashing volley flew over them. “Now, 
to your oars, boys, before they can load again.” 
The light skiff almost rose out of the water to 
their vigorous stroke; and although the balls 
tore incessantly among them, they continued to 
row on. Sheets of bright flame flashed across 
the water, as volley after volley followed ; but 
the Hungarians were soon out of reach of the 
fire, with no other loss than some slight wounds. 

At first it seemed as if some pursuit were 
intended ; but this was soon abandoned, and the 
noise of horses and wheels on the road showed 
that the multitude was departing landwise. 
Frank now bethought him what was best to 
be done. If the country was really in open re- 
volt, the only chance of safety lay in surrender- 
ing to something like authority ; if this were a 
mere partial outbreak, in all likelihood the op- 
posite shores of the lake would offer a refuge. 
A single light, like a star, shone in the far dis- 
tance, and thither Frank now steered the boat. 
Ravitzky lay against his knees, his head on 
Frank’s lap, breathing heavily, and occasionally 


muttering to himself, while the men kept time 
to the oars with a low, mournful chant, which 
sounded at least like a death-wail over their 
comrade. 

The lake, opposite Varenna, is nearly at its 
widest part ; and it was full three hours after 
the occurrence of the skirmish that they drew 
near to the light, which they now saw proceed- 
ed from a little boat-house, belonging to a villa 
a short distance from shore. A small harbor, 
with several boats at anchor in it, opened on the 
water’s edge, and a great flight of marble steps 
led up to a terraced garden, adorned with fount- 
ains and groups of statuary. 

Frank saw at once that he had invaded the 
precincts of one of those princely villas which 
the Milanese nobility possess on the lake, and 
was uncertain which course to take. His Aus- 
trian uniform, he well knew, would prove a 
sorry recommendation to their kind offices. For 
some time back the breach between the Aus- 
trians and the Lombards had gone on widening, 
till at length every intercourse had ceased be- 
tween them; and even the public places resort- 
ed to by the one, were sure to be, avoided on that 
account by the other. Scarcely a day passed 
without Milan witnessing some passages of 
hostility or insolence, and more than one fatal 
duel showed how far political dislike had de- 
scended into personal hatred. 

To ask for aid and assistance under circum- 
stances such as these would have been, as Frank 
felt, a meanness ; to demand it as a right would 
have been as insolent a pretension ; and vet 
what was to be done ? Ravitzky’s life was in 
peril ; should he, from any scruple whatever, 
hazard the chances of saving his poor comrade? 
“Come what may,” thought he, “I’ll claim 
their succor — theirs be the shame if they refuse 
it!” 

The approach was longer than he suspected, 
and, as he went along, Frank had occasion to 
remark the tasteful elegance of the grounds, and 
the costly character of all the embellishments. 
He saw that he was about to present himself 
before one of the “magnates” of the land, and 
half-prepared himself for a haughty reception. 
Crossing a little bridge, he found himself on a 
grassy plateau, on which a number of windows 
looked out; and these now all lay open, while, 
seated within were several persons enjoying the 
Italian luxury of a “ bel fresco,” as the air of 
the lake gently stirred the leaves, and carried 
some faint traces of Alpine freshness into the 
plains beneath. A large lamp, covered with a 
deep shade threw a dubious light through the 
chamber, and gave to the group all the effect 
and coloring of a picture. 

On an ottoman, supported by pillows, and in 
an attitude of almost theatrical elegance, lay a 
lady, dressed in white, a black vail fastened in 
her hair behind, being half drawn across her 
face. At her feet sat a young man, with an 
air of respectful attention ; and a little further 
off, in an easy chair, reclined the massive pro- 
portions of a priest, fanning himself with his 


249 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


skull-cap, and seemingly, gasping for air. Be- 
hind all, again, was another figure — a tall man, 
who, with a cigar in his mouth, slowly paced 
the chamber up and down, stopping occasionally 
to hear the conversation, but rarely mingling in 
it. ' 

There was that air of indolent enjoyment and 
lassitude, that mingled aspect of splendor and 
neglect, so characteristically Italian, in the scene, 
that Frank forgot himself, as he stood still and 
gazed on the group, and even listened to the 
words. 

“ After all,” said the young man, in Italian, 
“it is better to let them do the thing in their 
own way ! Cutting off a patrol here, shooting a 
sentry there, stabbing a general to-day, poison- 
ing a field-marshal to-morrow, seems to our 
notions a very petty war, but it makes a country 
very untenable in the end !” 

“ F uori i barbari ! over the Alps with them, 
at any cost!” growled the priest. 

“ I agree with you,” said the tall man, stop- 
ping to brush the cinder from his cigar, “ if you 
can drive them away in a fair stand-up fight; 
and I don’t see why you could not ! Numeri- 
cally, you are about five hundred to one ; 
physically, you look their equals. You have 
arms in abundance; you know the country; 
you have the wishes of the people — ” 

“ The prayers of the Church,” interposed the 
lady. N .- 

“ Beati sunt illi qui moriuntur pro patria,” 
muttered the Padre. 

“You and I, father,” said the young man, 
“ would like a little of that beatitude in this 
world, too.” 

Frank had now heard more than he had desired 
to hear ; and. unhooking his sabre, he suffered 
it to clink at his heels as he boldly advanced 
toward the windows. 

“Who have we there?” cried the tall man, 
advancing to the terrace, and challenging the 
stranger. 

Frank replied, in French, that he was an 
Austrian officer, whose party had been waylaid 
near Yarenna, and who had made his escape 
with a wounded comrade and a few others. 

“ So the shots we heard came from that 
quarter?” whispered the youth to the lady. 

She signed to him to be cautious, and the tall 
man resumed : 

“ This is a private villa, sir ; and as yet, at 
least, neither an Austrian barrack nor an hos- 
pital.” 

“ When I tell you, sir,” said Frank, with 
difficulty restraining his passion, “that my 
comrade is dying, it may, perhaps, excite other 
feelings than those of national animosity.” 

“ You are a Hungarian?” asked the youth. 

“ What of that?” broke in the Padre. “ Tutti 
barbari ! tutti barbari !” 

Meanwhile the tall man leaned over whefe 
the lady sat, and conversed eagerly with her. 

“ You have to think how it will look, and 
how it will tell abroad !” said he, in English. 
« How shall we persuade the Deople that we 


1 are in their cause, if you make this villa an 
Austrian refuge?” 

She whispered something low in reply, and 
he rejoined impatiently : 

“ These are small considerations ; and if we 
are to be always thinking of humanity, let us 
give up the game at once.” 

“You’ll not refuse my comrade the consola- 
tions of his Church, at least?” said Frank. “ I 
see a reverend Father here — ” 

“ And you’ll never see him follow you one 
step out of this chamber,” broke in the priest. 
“ Ego autem tanquam surdus, non audiebam,” 
muttered he, with a wave of his hand. 

“ But if he be a good Catholic,” interposed 
the youth, half slyly. 

“ Let them be confounded who seek to do me 
evil !” said the priest, with a solemnity that 
said how deeply he felt for his own safety. 

“This discussion is lasting too long,” said 
Frank, impatiently. “I can not coerce your 
humanity, but I can demand as a right that a 
soldier of your emperor shall receive shelter 
and succor.” 

“ I told you so,” said the tall man, still 
addressing the lady in English: “first the en- 
treaty — then the menace.” 

“And what are we to do,” asked she anx- 
iously. 

“ Let them occupy the boat-house ; there are 
beds in the lofts. Jekyl will see that they have 
whatever is necessary ; and perhaps by to-mor- 
row we shall get rid of them.” Turning to- 
ward the youth, he spoke to him for a few 
minutes rapidly, and the other replied, “You 
are right. I’ll look to it.” He arose as he 
spoke, and bowing politely to Frank, pronounced 
himself ready to accompany him. 

With a few words of apology for his intrusion, 
as awkwardly uttered as they were ungracious- 
ly received, Frank retired from the chamber, to 
retrace his steps to the harbor. 

Little as he was disposed to be communica- 
tive, Alfred Jekyl — for it was our old acquaint- 
ance — contrived to learn as they went along 
every circumstance of the late encounter. The 
pliant Jekyl fully concurred in the indignant 
epithets of cowards and assassins, bestowed by 
Frank upon his late assailants; deplored with 
him the miserable and mistaken policy of revolt 
among the people ; and regretted that, as foreign- 
ers themselves, they could not offer the hospital- 
ity of the villa to the wounded man without ex- 
posing their lives and fortunes to an infuriated 
peasantry. 

“ What nation do you then belong to?” asked 
Frank, shrewdly concealing his knowledge of 
English. 

“ We are — so to say — of different countries,” 
said Jekyl, smiling and evading the question. 
“ The Padre is a Florentine — ” 

“ And the lady ?” 

“ She is a very charming person, and if it 
were not that she is a little over-devout — a 
shade too good — would be the most delightful 
creature in existence.” 


250 


TILE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ The tall man is her husband, I conclude.” 

“No— not her husband,” smiled Jekvl again : 
“ a person you ; ll like much when you see more 
of him. Short and abrupt, perhaps, at first, but 
so kind-hearted, and so generous.” 

“And has the villa got a name?” asked 
Frank, in a voice of some impatience, at finding 
how little his companion repaid his frankness. 

“It is called La Rocea,” said Jekyl. “ Had 
you not been a stranger in Italy you would 
scarcely have asked. It is the most celebrated 
on the whole lake.” 

Frank thought he had heard the name before, 
but when, where, or how, he could not remem- 
ber. Other cares were, besides, too pressing 
upon him to make him dwell on the subject, 
and he willingly addressed himself to the more 
urgent duties of the moment. 

The boat-house stood in no need of all Jekyl’s 
apologies. Frank had lodged in many inferior 
quarters since he had began soldiering : there 
were several excellent bedrooms, and a delight- 
ful little salon, which looked directly out upon 
the lake. Ravitzky, too, had rallied consider- 
ably, and his wounds, although formidable from 
the loss of blood, showed nothing likely to prove 
fatal. Jekyl pledged himself to send a surgeon 
at once to him; and, adding all kinds of civil 
speeches and offers of personal service, at last 
deft the friends together to exchange confi- 
dences. 

“ What are our hosts like, Dalton ?” said the 
cadet. 

“ You would call them most patriotic, Ra- 
vitzky, for they would scarcely give us shelter. 
Their only regret seemed that our friends yonder 
had not done the work better, and finished off 
the rest of us !•” 

“ It is not pleasant to aceept of an ungracious 
hospitality ; but I suppose that I, at least, shall 
not trouble them long. There’s something hot 
goes on ebbing here that tells of internal bleed- 
ing, and if so, a few hours ought to suffice.” 

Frank did his best to rally his poor comrade ; 
but the task is a difficult one with those whose 
fear of death is small. 

“ You’ll have to write to Milan, Dalton,” 
said he, suddenly. 

“ I should rather say, to hasten thither at 
once,” said Frank. “I ought to report myself 
as soon as possible.” 

But you mustn’t leave me, Dalton ; I can not 
part with you. A few hours is not much to you, 
to me it is a lifelong. I want you also to write 
to Walstein for me ; he’ll take care to tell my 
mother.” 

Frank knew well the breach of discipline 
this compliance would entail, and that he could 
scarcely be guilty of a graver offense against 
duty ; but Ravitzky clung to his wish with such 
pertinacity, throwing into the entreaty all the 
eagerness of a last request, that Frank was 
obliged to promise he would remain, and let the 
result take what shape it might. While he, 
therefore, gave orders to his only unwounded 
comrade to hold himself in readiness to set out 


for Milan by daybreak, he proceeded to write 
the brief dispatch which was to record his 
disaster. There are few sadder passages in 
the life of a young soldier than that in which he 
has to convey tidings of his own defeat. Want 
of success is so linked and bound up with want 
of merit, that every line, every word, seems a 
self-accusation. 

However inevitable a mishap might appear 
to any witnessing it, a mere reader of the ac- 
count might suggest fifty expedients to escape 
it. He knew, besides, the soldierlike contempt 
entertained in the service for all attacks of un- 
disciplined forces, and how no party, however 
small, of “ regulars” was esteemed insufficient 
to cope with a mob of peasants or villagers. 
Any contradiction to so acknowledged a theory 
would be received with loud reprobation, and, 
whatever came of it, the most inevitable result 
would be professional ruin of him unlucky 
enough to incur such a failure. 

“ There’s an end of the career of the Lieu- 
tenant von Dalton,” said Frank as he concluded 
the paper. “ Neither his uncle, the field mar- 
shal, nor his sister, the princess, will have favor 
enough to cover delinquency like this.” It did, 
indeed, seem a most humiliating avowal, and 
probably his own depressed state gave even a 
sadder coloring to the narrative. He accom- 
panied this dispatch by a few lines to the count, 
his grand-uncle, which, if apologetic, were man- 
ly and straight-forward ; and, while bearing a 
high testimony to Ravitzky’s conduct, took all 
the blame of failure to himself alone. 

He would gladly have laid down to rest when 
this last was completed, but the cadet pressed 
eagerly for his services, and the letter to Wal- 
stein must be written at once. 

“ The surgeon tells me that there is internal 
bleeding,” said he, “and that, should it return 
with any degree of violence, all chance of re- 
covery is hopeless. Let us look the danger 
boldly in the face then, Dalton, and, while I 
have the time, let me tell Walstein all that I 
have learned since we parted. The letter I will 
confide to your safe keeping, till such time as it 
can be forwarded without risk of discovery.” 

“Is there necessity for such precaution?” 
asked Frank. 

“ Can you ask me the question ?” 

“ Then how am I to write it?” said he. 

“ Simply from my dictation,” replied the 
other, calmly. “ The sentiments will not be 
yours, but mine. The mere act of the pen, for 
which these fingers are too weak, can never 
wound the susceptibility of even your loyalty. 
You are not satisfied with this ?” 

Frank shook his head dubiously. 

Then leave me where I am. I ask no com- 
panionship, nor friendship either — or, if you pre- 
fer it, hasten to Milan and denounce me as a 
traitor. My character is well enough known 
not to need corroboration to your charge ; the 
allegation will never hurt me and it may serve 
you. Ay, Herr lieutenant, it will prove an op- 
portune escape for the disgrace of this unlucky 


251 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


night. They will forgive you much for such a 
disclosure.” - ' ) * | 

Frank’s temper would have been insufficient 
to bear such an insult as this, had not the words j 
been spoken by one already excited to the mad- 
ness of fever, and whose eye now flashed with 
the wild glare of mania. 

It was long before Frank could calm down 
the passionate excitement of the sick man, and 
fit him for the task he wished to execute ; and 
even then Ravitzky undertook it in a sullen, re- 
sentful spirit, that seemed to say that nothing 
short of the necessity would have reduced him 
to such a confidence Nor was this all. Pain, 
and nervous irritability together, made him dif- 
ficult, and occasionally impossible, to understand. 
The names of people and places of Hungarian 
origin Frank in vain endeavored to spell; the 
very utmost he could do being to follow the 
rapid utterance with which the other at times 
spoke, and impart something like consistency to 
his wild, unconnected story. 

That Ravitzky had been employed in secret 
communications with some of the Hungarian 
leaders was plain enough, and that he had held 
intercourse with many not yet decided how’ to 
act, w r as also apparent. The tangled web of 
intrigue was, how’ever, too intricate for faculties 
laboring as his were, and wfiiat betw r een his own 
wanderings and Frank’s misconceptions, the 
document became as mysterious as an oracle. 
Perhaps Frank was not sorry for this obscurity ; 
or perhaps, like the lady w T ho consoled herself 
for the indiscretion of keeping a lover’s picture 
by the assurance that “it w 7 as not like him,” he 
felt an equal satisfaction in thinking that the 
subject of his manuscript could never throw any 
light upon any scheme that ever existed. Now 7 , 
it ran on about the feelings of the Banat popu- 
lation, and their readiness to take up arms ; notv, 
it discussed the fordage of rivers in Transylvania. 
Here, w 7 as an account of the arms in the arsenal 
of Arad ; there, a suggestion how to cut off Nu- 
gent’s corps on the “Platen See.” At times it 
seemed as if a great “ Selave” revolt were in 
contemplation ; at others, the cause appeared 
that of the Hungarian nobles alone, anxious to re- 
gain all the privileges of the old feudalism. “ At 
all events it is rebellion,” thought Faank; and 
heartily glad was he wffien the task was com- 
pleted, and every thing save the address append- 
ed. It was now sealed, and by Ravitzky’s ad- 


vice deposited within the linings or Frank’s pe- 
lisse, till such time as a safe opportunity might 
offer of forwarding it to Walstein. 

The task occupied some hours ; and w T hen it 
was completed, so tired w T as Frank by former 
exertion and excitement, that he lay down on 
the floor, and wfith his head on the sick man’s 
bed fell fast asleep. Such had been his eager- 
ness to finish this lengthy document, that he had 
never perceived that he w T as w 7 atched as he 
wrote, and that from the little copse beside the 
wfindow a man had keenly observed him for 
several hours long. 

Ravitzky, too, fell into a heavy slumber ; and 
now’, as both slept, a noiseless foot crossed the 
floor, and a man in the dark dress of a priest 
drew’ nigh the bedside. Waiting for some sec- 
onds as if to assure himself of the soundness of 
their sleep, he bent dow’n and examined their 
features. Of the cadet he took little notice ; but 
when his eyes fell upon Frank’s face, pale and 
exhausted as he lay, he almost started back 
with astonishment, and for several minutes he 
seemed as if trying to disabuse himself of an 
illusion. Even the uniform appeared to surprise 
him, for he examined its details wfith the great- 
est care. As - he stood thus with the pelisse in 
his hand, he seemed suddenly to remember the 
letter he had seen placed within the lining; and 
then as suddenly drawing out his penknife, he 
made a small aperture in the seam, and with- 
drew 7 the paper. He was about to replace the 
pelisse upon the bed, w T hen, by a second thought 
as it wex-e, he tore off the envelope of the letter, 
and re-inserted it within the lining. 

A single glance at it appeared to convey the 
whole tenor of its contents, and his dark eyes 
ran over the w’ords with eager haste; then, 
turning aw r ay, he moved cautiously fi'om the 
room. Once in the free air again he re-opened 
the paper, his sallow features seeming to light 
up wfith a kind of passionate lustre as he ti’aced 
the lines. “ It is not — it can not be without a 
meaning, that w r e are thus forever meeting in 
life !” cried he ; “these are the secrets by w T hich 
destiny w’orks its purpose, and we blindly call 
them accident ! Even the savage know T s better, 
and deems him an enemy w’ho crosses his path 
too frequently. Ay, and it wfill come to this 
one day,” muttered he, slowly ; “ he or I — he 
or I.” Repeating this over and over, he slowfiy 
returned to the villa. 


CHAPTER LIV. 


“A VILLA AND 

Haying told our readers the villa was called 
La Rocca. it is perhaps needless that we should 
say that the lady was our old friend, Lady 
Hester, who, under the spiritual guidance of 
the Canon of the Duomo, was now completing 
her religious education, while Lord Norwood 
was fain to escape the importunity of duns and 
the impertinence of creditors by a few weeks’ 
retirement in this secluded region. Not that 
this was his only inducement. For some time 
back he had pressed his claim on various mem- 
bers of his government for place or employment. 
He had in vain represented the indignity of a 
peer reduced to beggary, or the scarcely better 
alternative of play for support. He had tried — 
unsuccessfully, however — every sort of cajolery, 
menace, and flattery, to obtain something ; and 
after successively offering his services for or 
against Carlism in Spain, with Russia or against 
her in the Caucasus, with twenty minor schemes 
in Mexico, Sicily, Greece, and Cuba, he at last 
determined on making Northern Italy the sphere 
of his abilities, wisely calculating that before the 
game was played out he should see enough to 
know what would be the winning side. 

An accidental meeting with D’Esmonde, 
whicli renewed their old intimacy, had decided 
him on taking this step. The abbe had told 
him that the English government of the day 
was secretly favorable to the movement ; and 
although, from the necessities of state policy 
and the requirements of treaties, unable to af- 
ford any open or avowed assistance, would still 
gladly recognize his participation in the strug- 
gle, and, in the event of success, liberally re- 
ward him. U A new kingdom of Upper Italy, 
with Milan for the capital, and Viscount Nor- 
wood the resident Minister Plenipotentiary,” 
there was the w T hole episode in three volumes, 
with its “plot,” “catastrophe,” and “virtue 
rewarded,” in appropriate fashion ; and as times 
were bad, neither racing nor cards profitable, 
patriotism was the only unexplored resource he 
could think of. ■ 

Not that my lord had much faith in the 
abbe. Far from it. He thought all priests 
were knaves; but he also thought “that he’ll 
not cheat me. No, no; too wide awake for 
that. He’ll not try that dodge. Knows where 
I’ve graduated. Remembers too well what 
school I come of.” He was perfectly candid, 
too, in this mode of reasoning, qalmly telling 
D’Esmonde his opinions of himself, and frankly 
showing that any attempt at a “ jockey” of him 


ITS COMPANY.” 

must inevitably fail. The abbe, to do him jus- 
tice, took all this candor well — affected to deem 
it the mere ebullition of honest John Bullism ; 
and so, thej T were well met. At times, indeed, 
the priest’s enthusiasm carried him a little away, 
and he ventured to speculate on the glorious 
career that conversion would open to the noble 
viscount, and the splendid fruits such a change 
would be certain to produce. Norwood was, 
however, too practical for such remote benefits ; 
and, if the abbe couldn’t “make the thing safe,” 
as he styled it, would not listen to this sugges- 
tion. A rich Italian princess — there were two 
or three such prizes in the wheel — or an In- 
fanta of Spain, might solace many a theological 
doubt ; but Norwood said there was no use in 
quoting the “ Fathers” when he was thinking, 
only, of the “ Daughters.” 

And the priest wisely seemed to take him at 
his word. As for Lady Hester, political in- 
trigue was quite new to her, and consequently 
very delightful. Since the cardinal’s departure 
for Rome she had begun to weary somehow of 
the ordinances of her new faith. The canonico 
but ill replaced his eminence. He had none of 
that velvety smoothness of manner, that soft 
and gentle persuasiveness of the dignitary. He 
could neither smile away a doubt, nor resolve 
a difficulty by a “ bon mot.” It is but just to say 
that he was no ascetic, that he loved good cheer 
and pleasant converse, and was free to let others 
participate in the enjoyment. Lady Hester was, 
however, too much habituated to such indul- 
gences to reckon them other than necessaries. 
D’Esmonde, if he had had time, might have 
compensated for all these deficiencies, but he 
was far too deeply engaged with other cares, 
and his air of grave pre-occupation was more 
suited to awe her ladyship than suggest ease 
in his presence. And now we come to Albert 
Jekyl — the last member of this incongruous 
family. Nothing was less to his taste than any 
fanaticism whether it took the form of religion 
or politics. All such extravagances were sure 
to interfere with society, impede intercourse, and 
disturb that delightful calm of existence wherein 
vices ripen, and where men of his stamp gather 
the harvest. 

To overthrow a government, to disturb the 
settled foundations of a state, were, to his think- 
ing, a species of “ inconvenance” that savored 
of intense vulgarity ; and he classified such 
anarchists with men who would like to smash 
the lamps, tear down the hangings, and destroy 


253 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the decorations of a salon in which they were 
asked to pass the evening, preferring to sit down 
amid ruin and wreck, than to eat their supper 
at a well-ordered and well furnished-board. 

To Jekyl’s eyes it was a very nice world as 
it was, if people would only let it alone ! “A 
world of bright eyes, and soft tresses, and white 
shoulders, with Donizetti’s music and Moet’s 
champagne, was not to be despised, after all.” 
He had no sympathies, therefore, with these dis- 
turbers ; but he was far too well-bred ever to 
oppose himself to the wishes of the cAnpany, 
and so he seemed to concur with what he could 
not prevent. He could have wished that the 
Italians would take a lesson from the Swiss, 
who only revolt w 7 hen there is nothing else to do, 
and never take to cutting each other’s throats, 
during the season when there are travelers to 
be cheated ; “ but, perhaps,” said he, “ they 
will soon get enough of it, and learn that their 
genius lies more in ballets and bon-bons, than in 
bombs and rockets.” 

Of such various hopes and feelings were the 
party made up who now awaited D’Esmonde’s 
presence at the supper-table. It was past mid- 
night, and they had been expecting him with 
impatience for above an hour back. Twice had 
the canonico fallen asleep, and started up w T ith 
terror at what he called a “ fantasma di fame.” 
Jekyl had eaten sardines and oysters till he was 
actually starving. Lady Hester w T as fidgety and 
fretful, as waiting always made her; while 
Norwood walked from the room to the terrace, 
and out upon the grass to listen, uneasy lest any 
mischance should have befallen one who was so 
deeply involved in their confidences. 

“It is but three or four-and-twenty miles to 
Milan,” muttered Norwood; “he might easily 
have been here by this.” 

“ The road is infested with banditti,” growled 
out the Padre. 

“Banditti!” said Norwood, contemptously. 
But whether the sneer was intended for the cut- 
throat’s courage, or the folly of men who would 
expect any booty from a priest, is hard to say ; 
clearly the Padre took it in the latter sense, for 
he rejoined, 

“ Even so., Mi-lordo. When I was cure of 
Bergamo they stopped me one night on the 
Leeco road. A bishop was on a visit with me, 
and I had gone up to Milan to procure some 
fish for our Friday’s dinner. Oime ! what a 
turbot it was, and how deliciously it looked at 
the bottom of the calasino, with the lobsters 
keeping guard at either side of it, and a small 
basket of Genoa oysters — those rock beauties 
that melt in the mouth like a ripe strawberry ! 
There they were, and I had fallen asleep, and 
was dreaming pleasantly. I thought I saw 
St. Cecilia dressing ‘filets de sole aux fines 
herbes,’ and that she was asking me for sweet 
marjoram, when suddenly 1 felt a sharp stick 
as it were in my side, and, starting up, I felt 
the point — the very point, of a thin stiletto be- 
tween my ribs. 

“ ‘ Scusi, Padre mio,’ said a whining voice 


and a great black-bearded rascal touched his 
cap to me with one hand, while with the other 
he held the dagger close to my side, a comrade 
all the time covering me with a blunderbuss on 
the opposite side of the cart. ‘ Scusi, Padre 
mio, but we want your purse !’ ‘ Maladetto 
sia — ’ ‘Don’t curse,’ said he, beggingly ; ‘don’t 
curse, Padre, w T e shall only have to spend more 
money in masses; but be quick, out with the 
quattrini.’ 

“ ‘I have nothing but the church-fund for the 
poor,’ said I, angrily. 

“ ‘ We are the poor, Holy Father,’ whined the 
rogue. 

“ ‘ I mean the poor who hate to do evil,’ 
said I. 

“ ‘ It grieves us to the soul when we are 
driven to it !’ sighed the scoundrel ; and he 
gave me a gentle touch with the point of the 
stiletto. Dark as it was, I could see the wretch 
grin as I screamed out. 

“ ‘ Be quick,’ growled out the other, roughly, 
as he brought the wide mouth of the trombone 
close to my face. There was no help for it. 
I had to give up my little leathren pouch with 
all my quarter’s gatherings. Many a warning 
did I give the villains of the ill-luck that follow- 
ed sacrilege — how palsies, and blindness, and 
lameness came upon the limbs of those who 
robbed the Church. They went on counting 
the coins without so much as minding me ! A.t 
last, when they had fairly divided the booty, the 
first fellow 7 said, ‘ One favor more, Holy Father, 
before we part !’ 

“ ‘ Would you take my coat or my cassock ?’ 
said I, indignantly. 

“‘Heaven forbid it,’ said he, piously; ‘we 
want only your blessing, Padre mio !’ 

“ ‘My blessing on theives and robbers !’ 

“ ‘ Who need it more, Holy Father?’ said he, 
with another stick of the point ; ‘ who need it 
more ?’ 

“ I screamed aloud, and the w T retches this 
time laughed outright at my misery ; mean- 
while they both uncovered and knelt down in 
the road before me. Oime ! oime ! There 
w r as no help for it. I had to descend from the 
calasino !” 

“And did you bless them, father?” asked 
Jekyl. 

“ That did I ! for when I tried in the middle 
of the benediction to slip in a muttering of 
‘ Confundite ipsos qui quserunt animam meam,’ 
the whining rogue popped out his accuraed 
weapon, and cried, ‘Take care, Holy Father, 
w T e only bargain for the blessing.’ ” 

“They left you the fish, however?” said 
Norwood. > 

“ Not an oyster !” sighed the priest. “ ‘ You 
would not have us eat flesh on the fast, Padre 
mio!’” said the hypocritical knave. “ ‘ Poor 
fellows like us have no dispensation nor the money 
to buy it !’ And so they packed up every thing, 
and then, helping me to my seat, wished me a. 
pleasant journey, and departed.” 

“ I am curious to know if you really forgave 


254 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


them, Padre?” said Jekyl, with an air of 
serious inquiry. 

“ Have I not said so !” rejoined the priest, 
testily. 

“ Why, you tried to insinuate something that 
surely was not a blessing, Father.” 

“ And if I did, the fellow detected it. Ah, 
that rogue must have served mass once on a 
time, or his ears had never been so sharp !” 

“ Are yours quick enough to say if that be 
the tramp of a horse ?” asked Norwood, as he 
listened to the sounds. 

“Yes, that is a horse,” cried Jekyl. 

“ Now then, for the soup,” exclaimed the 
canon. “Ah! yes,” added he with a sigh, as 
he turned to Lady Hester, “ these are the 
crosses — these are the trials of life : but they 
are good for us — they are good for us ! Poor 
mortals that we are ! Non est sanitas in carne 
mea. Oime ! oime !” And so moralizing, he 
gave her his arm as he re-entered the house. 
In less than a minute latter, D’Esmonde gallop- 
ed up to the door, and dismounted. 

“ Has any thing occurred ? — you are late to- 
night,” asked Norwood, hastily. 

“ Nothing. The city, however, was in great 
alarm, and the tocsin was twice sounded in the 
churches when I left at ten o’clock ; the guards 
were doubled at the gates, and mounted patrols 
making the rounds in every quarter.” 

“ What was this for ?” asked Norwood. 

“ A mere false alarm — nothing more. The 
Austrians are harassed beyond measure by 
these frequent calls to arms ; and men grumble 
that they are mustered twice or thrice during 
the night without any cause., A petard ex- 
ploded in the street, or a church bell rung, is 
sure to call out the whole garrison.” 

“ I begin to suspect that our Italian friends 
will be satisfied with this, and never go further,” 
said Norwood, contemptuously. 

“ You are wrong there. It is by the frequency 
and impunity of these demonstrations, that they 
are working up courage for an overt movement. 
By the time that the Austrians have grown 
indifferent to such nightly disturbances, the 
others will have gained hardihood for a real out- 
break.” ' 

“If they only be persuaded that war is as- 
sassination on a grand scale, they might make 
excellent soldiers,” simpered Jekyl ; but the 
others seemed to take no heed of his pleasantry. 

“ Have they not fixed a time,” asked Nor- 
wood, eagerly, “ or is all left vague and uncer- 
tain as ever ?” \ ' 

“ The Swiss are quite ready. We only wait 
now for the Piedmontese ; Genoa is with us at 
a word ; so are Leghorn and the towns of the 
Romagna. The signal once given, there will 
be such a rising as Italy has not seen for centu- 
ries. England will supply arms, ammunition — ” 

“ All but men,” sighed Norwood ; “ and it is 
exactly what are wanting.” 

“And France — ” 

“Will give her sympathies,” broke in Jekyl. 
“That dear France } that always says God- 


speed to disturbance and trouble wherever it 
be.” 

“What of that Austrian soldier?” said 
D’Esmonde, who did not quite like the tone of 
either of his companions — “ is he better?” 

“ The surgeon says that he can not recover,” 
replied Jekyl; “and for that reason I suspect 
that he is in no danger.” 

“Have you seen the officer to-day?” asked 
the priest, again. 

“No,” replied Norwood. “Jekyl and I 
twice endeavored to speak with him ; but he 
slept half the forenoon, and since that has been 
writing innumerable dispatches to head-quar- 
ters.” ' 

“ They say at Milan that he’ll be shot for 
this misadventure,” said D’Esmonde: “that he 
acted in contravention to his orders, or did 
something, I know not what, which will be 
treated as a grave military offense.” 

“ The canonico is furious with us for this 
delay,” said Jekyl, laughing, as he returned 
from a peep into the salon. The abbe was, 
meanwhile, deep in a whispered conversation 
with Norwood. “Ay,” said the latter, doubt- 
ingly, “but it’s a serious thing to tamper with 
a soldier’s fidelity. The Austrians are not the 
people to suffer this with impunity.’ 

“ How are they to know it ?” 

“If it fail — if this young fellow reject our 
offers, which, as a Hungarian, it is just as likely 
that he will do ?” 

“ But he is not a Hungarian. I know him, 
and all about him.” 

“ And can you answer for his readiness to join 
us ?” 

“ I can not go that far ; but seeing the posi- 
tion he stands in, what can be more probable? 
And, take the worst case : suppose that ho re- 
fuses, I have him stilH” 

“ How do you mean?” 

“ Simply that I have in my hands the means 
to destroy all his credit, and peril his very life !” 
The sudden energy of passion in which he deliv- 
ered these words appeared to have escaped him 
unawares, for as quickly recovering his wonted 
smoothness of tone, he said, “Not that anything 
short of the last necessity would drive me to 
such an alternative.” 

“May I never have to trust to your tender 
mercies, abbe,” said Norwood, with a laugh, in 
which there was far more of earnest than of 
jesting ; “ but let us talk of these things after 
supper.” And, with the careless ease of a mere 
idler, he lounged into the house, followed by the 
others. ‘ • ' 

Once seated at supper, the conversation took 
a general turn, requiring all the abbe’s 'skill and 
Jekyl’s tact at times, to cover from the servants 
who waited the secret meaning of many of those 
allusions to politics and party which Lady Hes- 
ter uttered, in the perfect conviction that she 
was talking in riddles. Her indiscretion ren- 
dered her, indeed, a most perilous associate ; 
and in spite of hints, warnings, and signs, she 
would rattle on upon the dangerous theme of 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 255 


revolt and insurrection ; the poor devices of de- 
ception she employed being but sorry blinds to 
the native quickness of Italian shrewdness. 

This little fire of cross-purposes sadly per- 
plexed the canonico, who looked up now and 
then lrom his plate with a face of stupid aston- 
ishment at all that went forward. 

“You have heard, I suppose, canon,” said the 
abbe, adroitly addressing him, “that the city 
authorities have only granted twelve thousand 
crowns for the Festival of San Giovanni?” 

“Twelve thousand crowns! It will not pay 
for the throne of the Virgin,” growled out the 
canon, “ not to speak of the twenty -six angels 
in sprigged muslin !” 

“ There are to be no angels this time. The 
priests of the Santa Croce are to walk behind 
the canopy.” 

“ It will ruin the procession,” muttered the 
canon. 

“ They certainly look as little like angels as 
need be,” interposed Jekyl, slyly. 

“ Sixty lamps and two hundred tapers are a 
scant allowance,” continued D’Esmonde. 

“ Darkness — positive darkness !” ejaculated 
the canon ; “ubi evasit pietas nostra? what has 
become of our ancient faith ?” 

“ The soldier, your reverence, wishes to see 
you immediately,” said a servant, entering in 
haste ; “ he fears that he is sinking fast.” 

“The heavy dews of the morning are falling 
— can he not wait till the sun rises, Giuseppe?” 

“You had better see him at once, canon,” 
whispered the abbe. 

“ Oime ! oime !” sighed the priest, “ mine is 
a weary road — ‘ potum meum cum fletu misce- 
bam,’ ” added he, finishing off his champagne, 
“is it far from this?” 

“ Only to the boat-house, father,” said Lady 
Hester. 

“ Per mares et ignos ! it’s a good half hour’s 
walk,” growled he. 

“ You can have the pony carriage, father,” 
interposed she. 

“He starts at every thing by night — don’t 
trust the pony,” said Jekyl. 

a Well, then, be carried in my chair, father.” 

“ Be it so — be it so,” muttered he. “ I yield 
myself to any thing — ‘sicut passer sub tecto’ — 
I have no will of my own.” 

“ Go along with him, my lord,” whispered 
D’Esmonde; “the opportunity will be a good 
one to see the young officer. While the father 
talks with the sick man, you can converse ■with 
the friend. See in what frame of mind he 
is.” 

“ Does he speak French ? for I am but an in- 
different German,” said Norwood. 

“ Yes, French will do,” said D’Esmonde, 
who, after a moment’s hesitation as to whether 
he should reveal the secret of Frank’s country, 
seemed to decide on still reserving the knowl- 
edge.. 

“ But this could be better done to-morrow,” 
said Norwood. 

“To-morrow will be too late,” whispered 


D’Esmonde. “Go now; you shall know my 
reasons at your return.” 

Norwood took little heed of the canonico’s at- 
tempts at conversation as they -went along. 
His mind was occupied with other thoughts. 
The moment of open revolt was drawing nigh, 
and now came doubts of D’Esmonde’s sincerity 
and good faith. It was true that many of the 
priests were disposed to the wildest theories of 
democracy — they were men of more than ordi- 
nary capacity, with far less than the ordinary 
share of worldly advantages. D’Esmonde, how- 
ever was not one of these ; there was no limit 
to which his ambition might not reasonably 
aspire — no dignity in his Church above his 
legitimate hopes. What benefit could accrue 
to him from a great political convulsion ? “ He’ll 
not be nearer to the popedom when the cannon 
are shaking the Vatican!” Such were the puz- 
zling considerations that worked within him as 
he drew near the boat-house. 

A figure was seated on the door-sill, with the 
head buried beneath his hands, but on hearing 
the approach of the others he quickly arose and 
drew himself up. “ You are too late, sir,” said 
he, addressing the priest, sternly; “my poor 
comrade is no more !” 

“ Ah me ! they would drag me out in the 
chill night air,” groaned the canonico. 

The cruelty of that must have weighed heav- 
ily on his heart. 

Frank turned away, and re-entered the house 
without speaking, while Norwood followed him 
in silence. On a low truckle bed lay the dead 
soldier, his manly face calm and tranquil as the 
cold heart within his breast. A weatherbeaten, 
bronzed soldier sat at the foot of the bed, the 
tears slowly flowing along his cheeks, as his 
bloodshot eyes were fixed upon his comrade. It 
was the first blood that had been shed in the 
cause of Italian Independence, and Norwood 
stood thoughtfully staring at the victim. 

“Poor fellow!” said he; “they who gave 
him his death-wound little knew what sympathy 
for liberty that jacket covered, nor how truly the 
Hun is the brother of the Italian.” 

“ They were -assassins and murderers,” cried 
Frank, passionately ; “ fellows who attacked us 
from behind walls and barricades.” 

“ Your reproach only means that they were 
not soldiers.” 

“ That they were cowards, rather — rank cow- 
ards. The liberty that such fellows strive for 
will be well worthy of them ! But no more of 
this,” cried he, impatiently ; “ is there a church 
near, where I can lay his body — he was a Cath- 
olic ?” 

“There is a chapel attached to the villa; I 
will ask permission for what you require.” 

“You will confer a favor on me,” said Frank, 
“ for I am desirous of hastening on to Milan at 
once.” 

“ You will scarcely find your comrades there,” 
said Norwood. 

Frank started with surprise, and the other 
went on ' 


256 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ There are rumors of a serious revolt in the 
city, and some say that the imperial troops have 
retired on the Mantua road.” 

“ They know nothing of Austrian soldiers 
who say these things,” said Frank, haughtily; 
“ but there is the more need that I should lose 
no time here.” 

“ Come, then, I will show you the way to the 
chapel,” said Norwood, who could not divest 
himself of a feeling of interest for the young 
soldier. 

Frank spoke a few words in Hungarian to his 
men, and hastily wrapping the dead man in his 
cloak, they placed him on a door, his shako and 
his sword at either side of him. 

“ You will see that he is buried as becomes a 
brave and a true soldier,” said Frank, with a fal- 
tering accent, as they went along. “ This will 
defray the cost.” 

“ No, no ; there is no need of that,” said 
Norwood, pushing away the proffered purse. 
“We’ll look to it ourselves.” 

“ Let there be some record of him preserved, 
too, for his friends’ sake. His name was ‘ Stan- 
islas Ravitzky.’ ” / . 

“ And may I ask yours ?” said Norwood. 


“ You’ll hear of it in the first court-martial 
return for Milan,” said Frank, bitterly. 

“ Then why go there ? why hasten to certain 


ruin ?” 


“ You would say, why not desert ? — why not 
forfeit my honor and my oath ? Because I am 
a gentleman, sir ; and if the explanation be not 
intelligible, so much the worse for you.” 

“I have left him in the chapel,” said Nor- 
wood to D’Esmonde, a few minutes after this 
conversation ; “ he is kneeling beside the corpse, 
and praying. There is nothing to be done with 
him. It is but time lost to attempt it.” 

“ So much the worse for him,” said D’Es- 
monde, significantly repeating the words that 
Norwood related, while he hastily left the spot 
and walked toward the high-road, where now 
an Austrian picket was standing beside their 
horses. 

“ This is your warrant, sir,” said D’Esmonde 
to the officer, handing him a paper ; “ you’ll find 
the person you seek for in the chapel yonder.” 

The officer saluted in reply, and ordered his 
men to mount, while D’Esmonde, passing into 
a thick part of the copse, was out of sight in a 
moment. 








V 


> 'J 






CHAPTER LV. 


'«*«*. v - 

PETER DALTON ON POLITICS, LAW, AND SOCIALITIES. 


We have seen Baden in the “dark winter of 
its discontent” — in the spring-time of its promise 
— and now we come back to it once more, in 
the full blaze of its noon-day splendor. It was 
the height of the season ! And what a world 
of dissipation does that phrase embody. What 
reckless extravagance — what thoughtless pro- 
fusion — what systematic vice glossed over by 
the lacquer of polished breeding — what beauty 
which lacks but innocence to be almost divine. 
All the attractions of a lovely country, all the 
blandishments of wealth, the aids of music and 
painting, the odor of flowers, the songs of birds 
— all pressed into the service of voluptuous dis- 
sipation, and made to throw a false lustre over 
a scene where vice alone predominates ! 

It was the camp of pleasure, to which all 
rallied who loved to fight beneath that banner. 
And there they were, a mingled host of Princes, 
Ministers, and Generals. The spoiled children 
of fashion, the reckless adventurer, the bankrupt 
speculator, the flattered beauty in all the pride 
of her loveliness, the tarnished virtue in all the 
effrontery of conquest ! Strange and incongru- 
ous elements of good and evil — of all that is 
honored in heroism, and all that men shrink from 
with shame — there they were met as equals. 

As if by some conventional relaxation of all 
the habits which rule society, men admitted to 
their intimacies, here, those they would have 
strenuously avoided elsewhere. Vice, like pov- 
erty, seemed to have annihilated all the distinc- 
tions of rank, and the “decorated” Noble and 
the branded Felon sat down to the same board 
like brethren. 

Amid all the gay company of the kursaal 
none appeared to have a greater relish for the 
glittering pleasures of the scene than a large 
elderly man, who, in a coat of jockey cut and a 
showy waistcoat, sat at the end of one of the 
tables — a post which the obsequious attention 
of the waiters proclaimed to be his own distinc- 
tively. Within a kind of ring-fence of bottles 
and decanters of every shape and size, he looked 
the genius of hospitality and dissipation ; and it 
was only necessary to mark how many a smile 
was turned on him, how many a soft glance was 
directed toward him, to see that he was the 
centre of all-designing flattery. There was a 
reckless, unsuspecting jollity, in his look that 
could not be mistaken ; and his loud hearty 
laugh bespoke the easy self-satisfaction of his 


nature. Like “ special envoys,” his champagne 
bottles were sent hither and thither down the 
table, and at each instant a friendly nod or a 
courteous bow acknowledged his hospitable at- 
tention. At either side of him were seated a 
knot of his peculiar parasites, and neither were 
wit nor beauty wanting to make their society 
agreeable. There is a species of mock affec- 
tion — a false air of attachment in the homage 
rendered to such a man as this, that makes the 
flattery infinitely more seductive than all the 
respectful devotion that ever surrounded a mon- 
arch. And so our old friend Peter Dalton — 
need we to name him ? — felt it. “ Barring the 
glorious burst of a fox-hunting chorus, or the 
wild ‘ hip, hip’ of a favorite toast, it was almost 
as good as Ireland.” Indeed, in some respects, 
it had rather the advantage over the dear island. 

Peter was intensely Irish, and had all the 
native relish for high company, and it was no 
mean enjoyment that he felt in seeing Royal 
and Serene Highnesses at every side of him, and 
knowing that some of the great names of Europe 
were waiting for the very dish that was served 
first in honor to himself. There was a glitter- 
ing splendor, too, in the gorgeously decorated 
“ Saal,” with its frescoes, its mirrors, its lustres, 
and its bouquets, that captivated him. The 
very associations, which a more refined critic 
would have caviled at, had their attractions for 
him , and he gloried in the noise and uproar. 
The clink of glasses and the crash of plates were 
to his ears the pleasant harmony of a convivial 
meeting. 

He was in the very height of enjoyment. A 
few days back he had received a large remit- 
tance from Kate. It came in a letter to Nelly, 
which he had not read, nor cared to read. He 
only knew that she was at St. Petersburg waiting 
for Midchikoff’s arrival. The money had driven 
all other thoughts out of his head, and before 
Nelly had glanced her eye over half the first 
page, he was already away to negotiate the bills 
with Abel Kraus, the money-changer. As for 
Frank, they had not heard of him for several 
months back. Nelly, indeed, had received a 
few lines from Count Stephen, but they did not 
appear to contain any thing very interesting, for 
she went to her room soon after reading them, 
and Dalton forgot to ask more on the subject. 
His was not a mind to conjure up possible mis- 
fortunes. Always too ready to believe the best, 


258 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


be took the world ever on its sunniest side, and 
never would ackowledge a calamity while there 
was a loophole of escape from it. 

“ Why wouldn’t she be happy ? — What the 
devil could ail her? Why oughtn’t he to be 
well? — Wasn’t he as strong as a bull, and not 
twenty yet?” Such were the consolations of 
his philosophy, and he needed no better. 

His flatterers, too, used to insinuate little frag- 
ments of news about the “princess” and the 
“young count,” as they styled Frank, which he 
eagerly devoured, and, as well as his memory 
served him, tried to repeat to Nelly when he 
returned home of a night. These were enough 
for him ; and the little sigh with which he tossed 
off his champagne to their health was the extent 
of sorrow the separation cost him. 

Now and then, it is true, he wished they were 
with him ; he’d have liked to show the foreign- 
ers “ what an Irish girl was he would have 
been pleased, too, that his handsome boy should 
have been seen among “ them grinning baboons, 
with hair all over them.” He desired this the 
more, that Nelly would never venture into public 
with him, or, if she did, it was with such evident 
shame and repugnance, that even his selfishness 
could not exact the sacrifice. “ ’Tis, maybe, 
the sight of the dancing grieves her, and she 
lame,” was the explanation he gave himself of 
this strange turn of mind ; and whenever honest 
Peter had hit upon what he thought was a reason 
for any thing, he dismissed all further thought 
about the matter forever. It was a debt paid, 
and he felt as if he had had the receipt on his file. 

On the day we now speak of he was su- 
premely happy. An Irish peer had come into 
the Saal leaning on his arm, and twice called 
him “Dalton” across the table. The waiter 
had apologized to a royal highness for not hav- 
ing better Jobannisberg, as the “ Schloss” wine 
had all been reserved for the “ Count,” as Peter 
was styled. He had won four hundred Napo- 
leons at roulette before dinner ; and a bracelet, 
that cost a hundred and twenty, was glittering 
on a fair wrist beside him, while a murmur of 
his name, in tones of unquestionable adulation, 
from all parts of the table, seemed to fill up the 
measure of his delight. 

“What’s them places vacant there?” called 
he out to the waiter, and pointing to five chairs 
turned back to the table, in token of being re- 
served. 

“ It was an English family had arrived that 
morning who bespoke them.” 

“ Faix ! then, they’re likely to lose soup and 
lish,” said Peter; “ the ‘coorses’ here wait for 
no man.” And as he spoke the party made 
their appearance. 

A large elderly lady of imposing mien and 
stately presence led the way, followed by a 
younger and slighter figure ; after whom walk- 
ed a very feeble old man, of a spare and stoop- 
ing form ; the end being brought up by a little 
rosy man, with a twinkling eye and a short jerk- 
ing limp, that made him seem rather to dance 
than walk forward. 


“ They’ve ca — ca — carried off the soup al- 
ready,” cried the last-mentioned personage, as 
he arranged his napkin before him, “and — and 
— and I fa — fancy, the fish, too.” 

“ Be quiet, Scroope,” called out the fat lady; 
“ do be quiet.” 

“ Yes ; but we shall have to p — p — pay all 
the same,” cried Scroope. 

“ There’s good sense in that, any way,” broke 
in Dalton ; “ will you take a glass of champagne 
with me, sir? You’ll find it cool, and not bad 
of its kind.” 

Mr. Purvis acknowledged the courtesy grace- 
fully, and bowed as he drank. 

“ Take the ortolans to that lady, Fritz,” said 
Dalton to the w T aiter ; and Mre. Ricketts smiled 
her sw T eetest gratitude. 

“We are dreadfully late,” sighed she, “but 
the dear Princess of Stauffensch will ingen passed 
all the morning with us, and we couldn’t get 
aw T ay.” 

“ I thought it w T as the women about the ro — 
rope dancing detained you.” 

‘ ‘ Hush, Scroope — will you be quiet ? Martha, 
dearest, don’t venture on those truffles. My 
poor child, they would be the death of you.” 
And, so saying, she drew her companion’s plate 
before herself. “ A most agreeable gentleman- 
like person,” muttered she, in a whisper evi- 
dently intended for Peter’s ears. “We must 
find out who he is. I suppose you know the 
princess, sir? Don’t you love her?” said she, 
addressing Dalton. 

“Faix! if you mean the old lady covered 
with snuff that comes here to have her dogs 
washed at the well, without intending any of- 
fense to you, I do not. To tell you the truth, 
ma’am, when I w T as in the habit of failin’ in 
love, it was a very different kind of a creature 
that did it ! Ay, ay, ‘ The days is gone when 
beauty bright, my heart’s ease spoilt.’ ” 

“ My heart’s chain w T ove,” smiled and whis- 
pered Mrs. Ricketts. 

“ Just so. It comes to the same thing. Give 
me the wine, Fritz. Will you drink a glass 
with me, sir?” 

The invitation was addressed to General 
Ricketts, who, by dint of various shoves, pok- 
ings, and admonitions, was at last made aware 
of the proposition. 

“ Your father’s getting a little the worse for 
wear, miss,” said Dalton to Martha, who blush- 
ed at even the small flattery of the observation. 

“ The general’s services have impaired his 
constitution,” remarked Mrs. Ricketts, proudly. 

“ Ay, and to all appearance it was nothing to 
boast of in the beginning,” replied Peter, as he 
surveyed with self-satisfaction his own portly 
form. 

“ Fourteen years in the Hima — Hima — 
Him a — ” 

“ Himalaya, Scroope — the Himalaya.” 

“ The highest mountains in the world !” con- 
tinued Purvis. 

“For wet under foot, and a spongy soil that 
never dries, I’ll back the Galtees against them 


259 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


any day. See, now, you can walk from morn- 
ing to night and be over your head at every step 
you go.” 

” Where are they?” inquired Scroope. 

“ Why, where would* they be ? In Ireland to 
be sure ; and here’s prosperity to her, and bad 
luck to Process-servers, ‘ Polis,’ and Poor-Law 
Commissioners !” Dalton drained his glass with 
solemn energy to his toast, and looked as though 
his heart was relieved of a weight by this out- 
burst of indignation. 

“ You Irish are so patriotic !” exclaimed Mrs. 
Ricketts, enthusiastically. 

“I believe we are,” replied Dalton. “ ’Tis 
only we’ve an odd way of showing it.” 

“ 1 remark that they ne — never live in Ire- 
land when they can li — live out of it,” cackled 
Purvis. 

“Well, and why not? Is it by staying at 
home in the one place people learns improve- 
ments ? You might drink whisky-punch for 
forty years and never know the taste of cham- 
pagne. Potatoes wouldn’t teach you the flavor 
of truffles. There’s nothing like travellin’ !” 

“Very true,” sighed Mrs. Ricketts; “but, 
as the Poet says, ‘ Where’er I go, whatever 
realms I see — ” 

“ The devil a one you’ll meet as poor as 
Ireland,” broke in Dalton, who now had thrown 
himself headlong into a favorite theme. “ Other 
countries get better, but she gets worse.” 

“ They say it’s the Po — Po — ” screamed 
Scroope. 

“ The Pope, is it ?” 

“No; the Po — potatoes is the cause of every 
thing.” 

“ They might as well hould their prate, 
then,” broke in Peter, whose dialect always 
grew broader when he was excited. “ Why 
don’t they tell me, that if I was too poor to buy 
broadcloth, it would be better for me go naked 
than wear corduroy breeches? Not that I’d 
mind them, miss !” said he, turning to Martha, 
who already was blushing at his illustration. 

“ I fear that the evil lies deeper,” sighed Mrs. 
Ricketts. 

“ You mean the bogs?” asked Dalton. 

“Not exactly, sir ; but I allude to those 
drearier swamps of superstition and ignorance 
that overlay the land.” 

Peter was puzzled, and scratched his ear like 
a man at a nonplus. 

“My sister means the Pr — Pr — Pr — ” 

“ The Process-servers ?” 

:i No; the Pr — Priests — the Priests,” scream- 
ed Purvis. 

“ Bother !” exclaimed Dalton, with an accent 
of ineffable disdain. “ ’Tis much you know about 
Ireland !” 

“You don’t agree with me, then?” sighed 
Mrs. Ricketts. 

“Indeed I do not. Would you take away 
the little bit of education out of a country where 
there’s nothing but ignorance ? — would you ex- 
tinguish the hopes of heaven among them that 
has nothing but starvation and misery here ? < 


Try it — just try it. I put humanity out of the 
question ; but just try it, for the safety sake ! 
Pat isn’t very orderly now, but, faix ! you’d 
make a raal devil of him then, entirely !” 

“But Popery, my dear sir — the Confession- 
al—” 

“ Bother !” said Dalton, with a wave of his 
hand. “ How much you know about it ! ’Tis 
just as they used to talk long ago about drunk- 
enness. Sure, I remember well when there 
was all that hue and cry about Irish gentle- 
men’s habits of dissipation, and the whole time 
nobody took any thing to hurt his constitution. 
Well, it’s just the same with Confession — every 
body uses his discretion about it. You have 
your peccadilloes, and I have my peccadilloes, 
and that young lady there has her — Well, I 
didn’t mean to make you blush, miss, but ’tis 
what I’m saying, that nobody, barrin’ a fool, 
would be too hard upon himself!” 

“ So that it ain’t Con — Confession at all,” 
exclaimed Purvis. 

“ Who told you that ?” said Peter, sternly. 
“ Is it nothing to pay two-and-sixpence in the 
pound if you were bankrupt to-morrow ? Doesn’t 
it show an honest intention, any way?” said he, 
with a wink. 

“ Then what are the evils of Ireland ?” asked 
Mrs. Ricketts, with an air of inquiring interest. 

“I’ll tell you, then,” said Dalton, slowly, as 
he filled a capacious glass with champagne. 
“It isn’t the Priests, nor it isn’t the Potatoes, 
nor it isn’t the Protestants either, though many 
respectable people think so ; for you see we had 
always Priests and Potatoes, and a sprinkling 
of Protestants, besides ; but the real evil of Ire- 
land — and there’s no man living knows it better 
than I do — is quite another thing, and here’s 
what it is.” And ho stooped down and dropped 
his voice to a whisper. “ ’Tis this : ’Tis pay- 
ing money when you haven’t it!” The grave 
solemnity of this enunciation did not seem to 
make it a whit more intelligible to Mrs. Ricketts, 
who certainly looked the very type of amaze- 
ment. “That’s what it is,” reiterated Dalton; 
“ paying money when you haven’t it ! There’s 
the ruin of Ireland ; and, as I said before, who 
ought to know better? for you see, when you 
owe money and you haven’t it, you must get it 
how you can. You know what that means? 
and if you don’t, I’ll tell you. It means mort- 
gages and bond debts ; rack-renting and renew- 
als ; breaking up an elegant establishment ; 
selling your horses at Dycer’s ; going to the 
devil entirely ; and not only yourself, but all be- 
longing to you. The tradesmen you dealt with ; 
the country shop where you bought every thing ; 
the tithes ; the Priests’ dues — not a farthing 
left for them.” 

“ But you don’t mean to say that people 
shouldn’t p — p — pay their debts?” screamed 
Purvis. 

“There’s a time for every thing,” replied 
Dalton. “ Shaving one’s self is a mighty useful 
process, but you wouldn’t have a man get up 
out of his bed at night to do it ? I never was 


260 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


for keeping money — the worst enemy wouldn’t 
say that of me. Spend it freely when you have 
it ; but sure it’s not spending, to be paying debts 
due thirty or forty years back, made by your 
great-grandfather ?” 

“ One should be just before they were ge — 
gen — gene — gene — ’ ’ 

“Faix! I’d be both,” said Dalton, who with 
native casuistry only maintained a discussion for 
the sake of baffling or mystifying an adversary. 
“ I’d be just to myself and generous to my 
friends, them’s my sentiments ; and it’s Peter 
Dalton that says it!” 

“Dalton!” repeated Mrs. Ricketts, in a low 
voice — “didn’t he say Dalton, Martha?” 

“Yes, sister; it was Dalton.” 

“ Didn’t you say your name was Da — Da — 

a — a — ” 

“No, I didn’t!” cried Peter, .laughing. “I 
said Peter Dalton as plain as a man could speak ; 
and if ever you were in Ireland, you may have 
heard the name before now.” 

“ We knew a young lady of that name at 
Florence.” 

“Is it Kate — my daughter Kate ?” cried the 
old man, in ecstasv. 

“Yes, she was called Kate,” replied Mrs. 
Ricketts, whose strategic sight foresaw a world 
of consequences from the recognition. “What 
a lovely creature she was !” 

“ And you knew Kate ?” cried Dalton again, 
gazing on the group with intense interest. “ But 
was it my Kate; perhaps it wasn’t mine!” 

“ She was living in the Mazzarini Palace 
with Lady Hester Onslow.” 

“ That’s her — that’s her ! Oh, tell me every 
thing you know — tell me all you can think of 
her. She was the light of my eyes for many a 
year! Is the old lady sick?” cried he, sud- 
denly, for Mrs. Ricketts had leaned back in her 
chair, and covered her face with her handker- 
chief. 

“ She’s only overcome,” said Martha, as she 
threw back her own shawl and prepared for 
active service; while Scroope, in a burst, of 
generous anxiety, seized the first decanter near 
him and filled out a bumper. 

“ She and your da — daughter were like sis- 
ters,” whispered Scroope to Dalton. 

“ The devil they were !” exclaimed Peter, 
who thought their looks must have belied the 
relationship. “Isn’t she getting worse — she’s 
trembling all over her?” 

Mrs. Ricketts’ state now warranted the most 
acute sympathy, for she threw her eyes wildly 
about, and seemed like one gasping for life. 

“ Is she here, Martha ? Is she near me — 
can I see her — can I touch her ?” cried she, in 
accents almost heart-rending. 

“Yes, yes; you shall see her; she’ll not 
leave you,” said Martha, as if caressing a child. 
“We must remove her; we must get her out 
of this.” 

“To be sure ; yes, of course !” cried Dalton. 
“There’s a room here empty. It’s a tender 
heart she has, any way;” and, so saying, he 


arose, and with the aid of some half-dozen wait- 
ers transported the now unconscious Zoe, chair 
and all, into a small chamber adjoining the 
Saal. , 

“ This is her father’s hand,” murmured Mrs. 
Ricketts, as she pressed Dalton’s in her own — 
“ her father’s hand.” 

“ Yes, my dear !” said Dalton, returning the 
pressure, and feeling a strong desire to blubber, 
just for sociality’s sake. 

“ If you knew how they loved each other,” 
whispered Martha, while she busied herself pin- 
ning cap-ribbons out of the way of cold applica- 
tions, and covering up lace from the damaging 
influence of restoratives. 

“It’s wonderful — it’s wonderful!” exclaimed 
Peter, whose faculties were actually confounded 
by such a rush of sensations and emotions. 

“ Make him go back to his dinner, Martha ; 
make him go back,” sighed the sick lady, in a 
half dreamy voice. 

“I couldn’t eat a bit; a morsel would choke 
me this minute,” said Dalton, who couldn’t bear 
to be outdone in the refinements of excited sen- 
sibility. 

“ She must never be contradicted while in 
this state.” said Martha, confidingly. “All de- 
pends on indulgence.” 

“ It’s Wonderful !” exclaimed Dalton, again — 
“downright wonderful !” 

“ Then, pray go back ; she’ll be quite well 
presently,” rejoined Martha, who already, from 
the contents of a reticule like a carpet-bag, had 
metamorphosed the fair Zoe’s appearance into 
all the semblance of a patient. 

“ It’s wonderful ; it beats Banagher,” mut- 
tered Peter, as he returned to the Saal, and 
resumed his place at the table. The company 
had already taken their departure, and, except 
Purvis and the general, only a few stragglers 
remained behind. 

“Does she often get them?” asked Peter of 
Purvis. 

“ Only when her fee — fee — feelings are work- 
ed upon ; she’s so se — sensitive !” 

“Too tender a heart,” sighed Peter, as he 
filled his glass and sighed over an infirmity that 
he thought he well knew all the miseries of. 
“And her name, if I might make bould?” 

“ Ricketts — Mrs. Montague Ricketts. This 
is Ge — Ge — General Ricketts.” At these 
words the old man looked up, smiled blandly, 
and lifted his glass to his lips. 

“ Your good health, and many happy returns 
to you,” said Peter, in reply to the courtesy. 
“ Ricketts — Ricketts. Well, I’m sure I heard 
the name before.” 

“In the d — d — duke’s dispatches you may 
have seen it.” 

“No, no, no. I never read one of them. I 
heard it here, in Baden. Wait now, and I’ll 
remember how.” Neither the effort at recol- 
lection nor the aid of a bumper seemed satisfac- 
tory. for Dalton sat musingly for several min- 
utes together. “Well, I thought I knew tho 
name,” exclaimed he at last, with a deep sigh 


261 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


of discomfiture ; " ’ tis runnin’ in my head yet — 
something about chilblains — chilblains.” 

But the name is R — R — Ricketts,” scream- 
ed Purvis. 

And so it is,” sighed Peter. “ My brain is 
wool-gathering. By my conscience, I have it 
now, though!” cried he, in wild delight. “I 
knew I’d scent it out. It was one Fogles that 
was here ; a chap with a red wig, and deaf as 
a door-nail.” 

“Foglass you mean? Fo — Foglass — don’t 
you ?” . , 

“I always called him Fogles; and I’m sure 
it’s as good a name as the other, any day.” 

“He’s so pi — pleasant,” chimed in Scroope, 
who, under the influence of Dalton’s champagne, 
was now growing convivial ; “ he’s so agree- 
able ; always in the highest cir — circles, and 
dining with No — No — No — ” 

“ With Nobs,” suggested Peter. “ He might 
do better and he might do worse. I’ve seen 
lords that was as great rapscallions as you’d 
meet from this to Kilrush.” 

“ But Foglass was always so excl — exclusive, 
and held himself so high.” 

“ The higher the better,” rejoined Dalton, 
“even if it was out of one’s reach altogether; 
for a more tiresome ould crayture I never for- 
gathered with ; and such a bag of stories he had, 
without a bit of drollery or fun in one of them. 
You may think that kind of fellow good company 
in England, but, in my poor country, a red her- 
ring and a pint of beer would get you one he 
couldn’t howld a candle to. See now, mister — ” 
“ P — P — Purvis,” screamed the other. 

“ Mister Purvis — if that’s the ngme — see now, 
’lisn’t. boasting I am, for the condition we’re in 
wouldn’t let any man boast — but it’s what I’m 
saying, the English is a mighty stupid people. 
They have their London jokes, and, like London 
porter, mighty heavy they are, and bitter besides, 
and they have two or three play-actors that 
makes them die laughing at the same comicali- 
ties every day of the year. They get used to 
them, as they do the smoke, and the noise, and 
the Thames water ; and nothing would persuade 
them that, because they’re rich, they’re not 
agreeable, and social, and witty. And may I 
never leave this, but you’d find cuter notions of 
life, droller stories, and more fun, under a dry 
arch of the aqueduct of Stoney Batter than if 
you had the run of Westminster Hall. Look at 
the shouts of laughing in the law coorts; look 
at the loud laughter in the House of Commons. 
Oh dear, oh dear, it makes me quite melancholy 
just to think of it. I won’t talk of the Parlia- 
ment, because it’s gone ; but take an Irish coort 
in Dublin, or on the assizes, at any trial — mur- 
der, if you like — and see the fun that goes on — 
the judge quizzing the jury, and the counsel 
quizzing the judge, and the pris’ner quizzing 
all three. There was poor ould Norbury — rest 
his soul ! — I remember well how he couldn’t put 
on the black cap for laughing.” 

“ And is ju — justice better administered for 
all that?” cried Purvis. 


“To be sure it is. Isn’t the laws made to 
expose villainy, and not let people be imposed 
upon ? Sure it’s not to hang Paddy Blake you 
want, but to keep others from following his ex- 
ample. And many’s the time in Ireland, when, 
what between the blunderin’ of the crown law- 
yers, the flaws of the indictment, the conscien- 
tious scruples of the jury — you know what that 
means — and the hurry of the judge to be away 
to Harrowgate or Tunbridge, a villain gets off. 
But instead of going out with an elegant bran 
new character, a bit of a joke — a droll word 
spoken during the trial — sticks to him all his 
life after, till it would be just as well for him to 
be hanged at once as be laughed at, from Pill 
Lane to the Lakes of Killarney. Don’t I re- 
member well, when one of the Regans — Tim, I 
think it was — was tried for murder at Tralee; 
there was a something or other they couldn’t 
convict upon. ’Twas his grandfather’s age was 
put down wrong, or the color of his stepmother’s 
hair ; or the nails in his shoes wasn’t described 
right; whatever it was, it was a flaw, as they 
called it; and a flaw in a brief, like one in a 
boiler, leaves every body in hot water. ‘ Not 
Guilty,’ says the jury, ‘for we can’t agree.’ 

“ ‘ ’Tis a droll verdict,’ says O’ Grady, for he 
was the judge ; ‘ what d’ye mean ?’ 

“ ‘ Most of us is for hanging, my lord, but 
some of us would let him off.’ 

“ ‘ What will you do, Mr. Attorney, says the 
judge; ‘have you any other evidence to bring 
forward ?’ and the attorney-general stooped 
down, and began whispering with the bench. 
‘Very well,’ says the judge, at last, ‘we’ll dis- 
charge him by proclamation.’ 

“ ‘ Wait a minute, my lord,’ says ould Bleth- 
ers, who got five guineas for the defense, and 
hadn’t yet opened Iris mouth. ‘ Before my re- 
spected but injured client leaves that dock, I 
call to your lordship, in the name and on behalf 
of British justice — I appeal to you, by the eter- 
nal principles of our glorious Constitution, that 
he may go forth into the world with a reputa- 
tion unstained, and a character unblemished.’ 

“ ‘ Not so fast, Mister Blethers,’ says O'Grady 
— ‘ not so fast. I’m going over Thieve-na-muck 
Mountain to-night, and, with the blessing of God, 
I’ll keep your unblemished friend where he is, 
till morning.’ Now you see the meaning of 
what I was telling you. ’Tis like tying a kettle 
to a dog’s tail.” 

It is not quite clear to us whether Purvis 
comprehended the story, or appreciated the il- 
lustration, but he smiled, and smirked, and looked 
satisfied, for Peter’s wine was admirable, and 
iced to perfection. Indeed, the worthy Scroope, 
like his sister, was already calculating how to 
“ improve the occasion,” and further cultivate 
the esteem of one whose hospitable dispositions 
were so excellent. It was just at this moment 
that Martha glided behind Purvis’s chair, and 
whispered a word in his ear. Whatever the 
announcement, it required some repetition be- 
fore it became quite palpable to his faculties, 
and it was only after about five minutes that 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


262 

his mind seemed to take in all the bearings of 
the case. 

“ Oh ! I ha — have it,” cried he. “ That’s it, 
eh ?” And he winked with a degree of cunning 
that showed the most timely appreciation of the 
news. 

“Wouldn’t the young lady sit down and take 
something ?” said Dalton, offering a seat. “ A 
glass of sweet wine ? They’ve elegant Tokay 
here.” 

“ Thanks, thanks,” said Scroope, apologizing 
for the bashful Martha, “ but she’s in a bit of a 
quandary just now. My sister wishes to return 
home, and we can not remember the name of 
the hotel.” 

Dalton took a hearty fit of laughing at the 
absurdity of the dilemma. 

“’Tis well,” said he, “you wern’t Irish. By 
my conscience ! they’d call that a bull and 
he shook his sides with merriment. “How did 
you get here?” 

“We walked,” said Martha. 

“And which way did you come?” 

“Can you remember, Scroope?” 

“ Yes, I can re — re — remember that we 
crossed a little Platz, with a fountain, and came 
over a wooden bridge, and then down an alley 
of li — li — linden-trees.” 

“To be sure ye did,” broke in Dalton; “and 
the devil a walk of five minutes ye could take in 
any direction here without seeing a fountain, a 
wooden bridge, and a green lane. ’Tis the 
same, whichever way you turn, whether you 
were going to church or the gambling-house. 
Would you know the name if you hear it. Was 
it the Schwan?” Purvis shook his head. “Nor 
the Black Eagle ? — nor the ‘ Cour de Londres ?’ 
nor the Russie? — nor the ‘Zaringer? 1 ” — nor, 
in fact, any of the cognate hotels of Baden ? 
“Wasn’t there a great hall when you entered, 
with orange-trees all round it, and little couri- 
ers, in goold lace jackets, smoking and drinking 
beer ?” Scroope thought he had seen something 
of that sort. “ Of course ye did,” said Dalton, 
with another burst of laughter. “ ’Tis the same 
in every hotel of the town. There’s a clock 
that never goes, too ; and a weather-glass al- 
ways at ‘set fair;’ and pictures round the walls 
of all the wonderful inns in Germany and Swit- 
zerland, with coaches-and-four driving in at full 
gallop, and ladies on the balconies, and saddle- 
horses waiting, and every diversion in life going 
on, while, maybe, all the time, the place is dead 
as Darmstadt.” 

Scroope recognized the description perfectly, 
but could give no clew to its whereabouts. 

“ Maybe ’tis Kaufmayer’s — was it painted 
yellow outside ?” 

Scroope thought not. “It hadn’t a garden 
in front?” He couldn’t say positively; but, if 
so, it was a small garden. “ He didn’t remark 
two dogs in stone beside the door?” No, he 
had not seen them ! 

“ Then, by the powers !” exclaimed Peter, 
“ I give it up. Nelly’s the only body can make 
any thing out of it.” 


“And who’s Ne — Ne — Nelly?” screamed 
Purvis. 

“ My daughter, Miss Dalton,” said Peter, 
haughtily, and as if rebuking the liberty of the 
question. 

Scroope hastened to apologize, and suddenly 
remembered how frequently he had heard of 
the young lady from her sister, and how eager 
Mrs. Ricketts would be to make her acquaint- 
ance. 

“There’s nothing easier than that same,” 
said Dalton. “ Just come with me to my little 
place, and take tea with us. Nelly will be 
right glad to see them that was kind to her sis- 
ter ; and then we’ll try if we can’t find out your 
inn.” 

“Can we do this, Martha?” cried Scroope, 
in seeming hesitation. 

“I’ll speak to my sister.” mildly replied she. 

“Do then, miss,” said Dalton. “Say ’tis 
just alone, and in the family way, and that we 
haven’t more than ten minutes’ walk from this ; 
or, we’ll get a coach if she likes.” 

The very thought of practicing hospitality 
was ecstasy to honest Peter, who, while Martha 
retired to consult her sister, ordered in a relay 
of bottles to beguile the time. 

“ I like that little ould man,” said he, confid- 
ingly, to Purvis, while he bent a kindly glance 
on “the General.” “He doesn’t say much, and, 
maybe, he hears less ; but he takes his glass 
pleasantly, and he lays it down when it’s empty, 
with a little sigh. I never knew a bad fellow 
had that habit.” 

Scroope hinted that the general was one of 
the bright stars of the British army. 

“I didn’t care that he took Tippoo Saib, or 
Bergen-op-Zoom, and that’s a big word — for a 
wickeder pair of devils, by all accounts, never 
lived — if he’s all right here. And Peter touched 
the left region of his brawny chest. “ If he’s 
good and generous, kind to the poor, and steady 
to his friends, “ I’d be prouder to know him than 
if he was ‘ Bony,’ or Brian Maguire !” 

Scroope assured him that the general’s great- 
ness took nothing from the kindly qualities of 
his heart; and, indeed, the mild looks of the old 
man well corroborated the eulogy ; and he and 
Dalton nodded and drank to each other with all 
the signs of a most amicable understanding. 

Martha was not long absent. She retui'ned 
with all manner of acknowledgments on the part 
of her sister ; but gratitude was so counterbal- 
anced by delicacy — fears of intrusion were so 
coupled with enthusiastic delight, that poor Dal- 
ton was quite unable to unravel the web, and 
satisfy himself what were her real intentions. 

“Is it that she won’t come?” said he, in a 
state of bewilderment. 

“Oh, no,” said Martha; “she did not mean 
that.” 

“Well, then, she is coming,” said he, more 
contentedly. 

“ She only fears the inconvenience — the trou- 
ble she may give Miss Dalton — not to speak of 
the abruptness of such a visit.” 


263 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ She doesn’t know Nelly ; tell her that. She 
doesn t know Nelly Dalton,” said Peter. “’Tis 
the same girl doesn’t care for trouble or incon- 
venience ; just talk to her about Kate, and you’ll 
pay her well for all she could do for you.” 

‘'My sister thinks a carriage would be bet- 
ter, she is so very weak,” mildly observed Mar- 
tha. 

“ Well, we’ll get one in a jiffy. Fritz, my 
man, send down to the Platz for a shandradan — 
a wagon, I mean. ’Tis a droll name for a 
coach.” And he laughed heartily at the con- 
ceit. “ And now, Mr. Purvis, let us finish them 
before we go. The gen’ral is doing his part 
like a man. It’s wonderful the nourishment 
wouldn’t put flesh on him — you could shave him 
with his shin-bone !” And Dalton stared at the 
frail figure before him with all the astonishment 
a great natural curiosity would create. 


“ What a kind creature ! what a really Irish 
heart !” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, as she slowly 
sailed into the room, and sank into a chair be 
side Dalton. “ It’s like a dream, a delicious 
dream, all this is. To be here in Baden, with 
my dear Miss Kate Dalton’s father — actually 
going to drink tea. What a thought, Martha ! 
to drink tea with dearest Nelly !” 

Peter began to fear that the prospect of such 
happiness was about to overwhelm her sensibil- 
ities once more ; but fortunately, this time, she 
became more composed, and discussed the visit 
with wonderful calm and self-possession*. 

The carriage now drove up, and although 
Dalton would greatly have preferred a little 
dalliance over the bottle, he politely gave one 
arm to Mrs. Ricketts, and another to Martha, 
issuing forth from the Kursaal in all the pride 
of a conqueror. 


CHAPTER LVI. 

i 

NELLY’S TRIALS. 


While Mr. Dalton is accompanying his 
guests along the Lichtenthal Alley, and de- 
scribing the various objects of interest on either 
hand, we will take the opportunity of explaining 
to our reader why it happened that honest Peter 
no longer inhabited the little quiet quarters 
above the toy-shop. 

By Kate’s liberality, for some time back he 
had been most freely supplied with money. 
Scarcely a week passed over without a line 
from Abel Kraus to say that such or such a 
sum was placed to his credit ; and Dalton once 
more reveled in those spendthrift habits that he 
loved. At moments, little flashes of prudential 
resolve would break upon him. Thoughts of 
Ireland and of the “ old place” would arise, and 
lie would half determine on some course of econ- 
omy which might again restore him to his home 
and country. But the slightest prospect of im- 
mediate pleasure was sufficient to rout these 
wise resolves, and Baden was precisely the spot 
to suggest such ‘"distractions.” There was no- 
thing Peter so much liked in the life of this 
watering-place as the facility with which ac- 
quaintance was formed. The stately reserve of 
English people was his antipathy, and here he 
saw that all this was laid aside, and that people 
conversed freely with the neighbor that chance 
had given, and that even intimacies grew up 
between those who scarcely knew each other’s 
names. 

Whatever might be thought of these practices 
by more fastidious critics, to Peter Dalton they 
appeared admirable. In his estimation the 
world was a great Donny brook Fair, where 
every body came to amuse and be amused. 
Grave faces and careworn looks, he thought, 


should stay at home, and not disturb the harmony 
of what he deemed a great convivial gathering. 

It may easily be guessed from this what 
classes of persons found access to his intimacy, 
and how every smooth-tongued adventurer, ev- 
ery well-dressed and plausible-looking pretender 
to fashion, became his companion. Nothing but 
honest Peter’s ignorance of foreign languages 
set any limit to his acquaintance ; and, even 
with this, he had a shake-hands intimacy with 
every Chevalier d’Industrie of France and Ger- 
many, and a cigar lending and lighting treaty 
with every long-haired Pole in Baden. 

As he dined every day at the Kursaal, he sel- 
dom returned home of an evening without some 
three or four chance acquaintances, whom he 
presented to Nelly without knowing their names. 
But they were sure to be “tip-top chaps,” and 
“up to every thing.” Not that the latter eu- 
logy was much of an exaggeration — the major- 
ity of them, indeed, well deserving such a pan- 
egyric. If Dalton’s long stories about Ireland, 
and its joys or grievances were very uninterest- 
ing to these gentlemen, they found some com- 
pensation in the goodness of his wine and the 
abundance of his cigars ; and Hock and tobacco 
digested many a story which, without such ad- 
juncts, would never have found a listener. Play 
is, however, so paramount to all else at Baden, 
that, as the season advanced, even a hot supper 
from the “ Russie” and an ice-pail full of cham- 
pagne flasks could not attract the company from 
the fascinations of the gambling-table, and Peter 
saw that his choice spirits were deserting him. 

“You live so far away,” cried one. “Your 
house is full a mile from the Kursaal.” 

“ There is such a climb-up to that crib of 


264 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


yours, Dalton,” cried another. “ One can’t 
manage it in this hot weather. Why won’t you 
pitch your tent in the plain ? It’s like going up 
the Rhigi to try and reach your quarters.” 

Such and such like were the polite admoni- 
tions administered by those who wanted a con- 
venient lounge for their spare half-hours, and 
who, while affecting to think of their friend, 
were simply consulting what suited themselves. 
And is this philosophy confined only to Baden? 
Is not the world full of friendships that, like 
cab-fares, are regulated by the mile ! The man 
who is half a brother to you while you live on 
the Boulevard du Ghent, becomes estranged from 
your bosom when you remove to the Champs 
Elysees ; and in these days of rapid transport, 
ten minutes’ walk would separate the most de- 
voted attachments. 

Dalton’s pride was at first wounded by these 
remonstrances ; but his second thoughts led him 
to think them more reasonable, and even eleva- 
ted the grumblers in his esteem. “ Sure, ain’t 
they the height of the fashion ? Sure, isn’t 
every body trying to get them ? Is it any won- 
der they wouldn’t scale a mountain for sake of 
a glass of wine?” The quiet home, so dear to 
him by many an association — the little window 
that looked out upon the Alten Schloss, and be- 
side which Nelly sat with him each evening — 
the small garden underneath, where Hans cul- 
tivated his beautiful carnations, and where many 
a little figure by Nelly’s hand graced some bed 
or alley — all became now distasteful. “ The 
stairs creaked dreadfully ; he didn’t think they 
were quite safe. The ceilings were so low, 
there was no breathing in the rooms. The hill 
would be the death of him ; he had pains in his 
knees for half the night after he climbed it.” 
Even the bracing air of the mountain, that was 
once his boast and pride, was now a “search- 
ing, cutting wind, that went through you like a 
knife.” It was a mean-looking little place, too, 
over a toyshop, “and Hans himself wasn’t what 
he used to be.” 

Alas ! thei'e was some truth in this last com- 
plaint. He had grown more silent and more 
absent in manner than ever ; sometimes would 
pass whole days without a word, or remain 
seated in his little garden absorbed in deep 
thought. The frequenters of his shop would 
seek in vain for him, and were it not for Nelly, 
who, in her father’s absence, would steal down 
the stairs and speak to them, the place would 
have seemed deserted. On one or two occa- 
sions she had gone so far as to be his deputy, 
and sold little articles for him : but her dread 
of her father’s knowing it had made her ill for 
half the day after. 

It was, then, a dreadful blow to Nelly when 
her father decided on leaving the place. Not 
alone that it was dear by so many memories, 
but that its seclusion enabled her to saunter out 
at will under the shade of the forest trees, and 
roam for hours along the little lanes of the deep 
wood. In Hans, too, she took the liveliest in- 
terest. He had been their friend when the 


world went worst with them ; his kindness had 
lightened many a weary burden, and his wise 
counsels relieved many a gloomy hour. It was 
true, that of late he was greatly altered. His 
books, his favorite volumes of Uhland and Tieck, 
were never opened. He never sat, as of yore, 
in the garden, burnishing up quaint old frag- 
ments of armor, or gazing with rapture on his 
strange amulets against evil. Even to the little 
ballads that she sung he seemed inattentive and 
indifferent, and would not stop to listen beneath 
the window as he once did. 

His worldly circumstances, too, were declin- 
ing. He neglected his shop altogether — he 
made no excursions as of old to Worms or 
Nuremberg for new toys. The young genera- 
tion of purchasers found little they cared for in 
his antiquated stores, and, after laughing at the 
quaint old devices by which a past age were 
amused, they left him. It was in vain that 
Nelly tried to infuse some interest into the pur- 
suit which once had been his passion. All 
the little histories he used to weave around ljis 
toys — the delusions of fancy in which he rev- 
eled, were dissipated and gone, and he seem- 
ed like one suddenly awakened from a delicious 
dream to the consciousness of some afflicting 
fact. He strenuously avoided the Daltons, too., 
and even watched eagerly for moments of their 
absence to steal out and walk in the garden. 
When by chance they did meet, his manner, 
instead of its old cordiality, was cold and re- 
spectful ; and he, whose eyes once sparkled 
with delight when spoken to, now stood un- 
covered, and with downcast looks, till they 
went by him. 

No wonder, then, that Dalton thought him 
changed. 

“ ’Tis nothing but envy’s killing him, Nelly,” 
said he. “ As long as we were poor like him- 
self, he was happy. It gratified the creature’s 
pride that we were behind with the rent ; and 
while he was buying them images, he was a 
kind of patron to you ; but he can’t bear to see 
us well off — that’s the secret of it all. ’Tis 
our prosperity is poison to him.” 

To no end did Nelly try to undeceive her 
father on this head. It was a corollary to his 
old theory about “ the ‘ bad dhrop’ that was al- 
ways in low people.” In vain did she remind 
him of poor Hanserl’s well-tried friendship, and 
the delicacy of a kindness that in no rank of life 
could have been surpassed. Dalton was rooted 
in his opinion, and opposition only rendered him 
more unforgiving. 

Quite forgetting the relations which once sub- 
sisted between them, he saw nothing in Han- 
serl’s conduct but black ingratitude. “ The lit- 
tie chap,” he would say, “ was never out of the 
house ; we treated him like one of the family ; 
and look at him now!” 

“ You saw him yourself, Nelly — you saw him 
shed tears the other day, when you spoke of tho 
princess. Was that spite or not — tell me that? 
He couldn’t speak with anger when you told 
him Frank was an officer.” 


265 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ Oh, how you mistake these signs of erao- 1 
tion, dearest father.” 

“ Of course I do. I know nothing — I’m too 

— I’m in my dotage. ’Tis my daughter 
Nelly understands the world, and is able to 
teach me.” 

“ Would that I knew even less of it ; would 
that I could fall back to the ignorance of those 
days when all our world was within these walls 

u And be cutting the images, I hope, again!” 
said he, scornfully ; “ why don’t you wish for 
that ? It was an elegant trade for a vouno- 
lady of your name and family ! Well, if there’s 
any thing drives me mad, it’s to think that all 
them blasted figures is scattered about the 
world, and one doesn’t know at what minute 
that they’ll turn up against you !” 

“ Nay, father,” said she, smiling sadly ; “ you 
once took an interest in them great as my 
own.” 

“ It only shows, then, how poverty can break 
a man’s spirit !” v 

Discussions like these, once or twice a week, 
only confirmed Dalton in his dislike to his old 
abode, and Nelly at last saw that all resistance 
to his will was hopeless. At last he perempto- 
rily ordered her to give Hans notice of their in- 
tended removal, for he had fixed upon a house 
in the Lichtenthal Alley to suit them exactly. 
It was a villa which had a few months before 
been purchased and fitted up by a young F rench 
count, whose gains at the gaming-table had been 
enormous. Scarcely, however, had he taken 
possession of his sumptuous abode, than u luck” 
turned ; he lost every thing in the world, and 
finished his career by suicide ! In a colony of 
gamblers, where superstition has an overween- 
ing influence, none could be found rash enough 
to succeed to so ill-omened a possession ; and 
thus, for nigh half the season, the house con- 
tinued shut up and unoccupied. Dalton, whose 
mind was strongly tinctured with fears of this 
kind, yet felt a species of heroism in showing 
that he was not to be deterred by the dangers 
that others avoided ; and as Abel Kraus, to 
whom the property now belonged, continually 
assured him “ it was just the house for Aim,” 
Peter overcame his scruples, and went to see it. 

Although of small extent, it was princely in 
its arrangements. Nothing that French taste 
and elegance could supply was wanting, and it 
was a perfect specimen of that costly splendor 
which in our own day rivals all the gorgeous 
magnificence of “ the Regency.” Indeed, it 
must be owned that honest Peter thought it far 
too fine to live in ; he trod the carpets with a 
nervous fear of crushing the embroidery, and 
ho sat down on the brocaded sofa with as much 
terror as though it were glass. How he was 
ever to go asieep in a bed where Cupids and 
angels were sculptured in such endless profu- 
sion, he couldn’t imagine; and he actually 
shrank back with shame from his own face, as 
he surveyed it within the silver frame of a cost- 
ly toilet-glass 

Such were his impressions, as he walked 


through the rooms with AbqJ, and saw, as the 
covers were removed from the lustres and mir- 
rors, some new and more dazzling object at 
each moment reveal itself. He listened with as- 
tonishment to the account of the enormous sums 
lavished on these sumptuous articles, and heard 
how twenty, or thirty, or forty thousand francs 
had been given for this or that piece of luxury. 

What was forty Napoleons a month for such 
splendor ! Kraus was actually lending him tho 
villa at such a price ; and what a surprise for 
Nelly, when he should show her the little draw- 
ing-room in rose-damask he meant for herself ; 
and then there was a delightful arbor in the 
garden to smoke in; and the whole distance 
from the Cursaal was not aboye ten minutes’ 
walk. Peter’s fancy ran over rapidly all the jolli- 
fications such a possession would entail; and if 
he wished, for his own sake, that there was less 
magnificence, he consoled himself by thinking 
of the effect it would have upon others. As he 
remarked to himself, “ There’s many thinks 
more of the gilding than tho gingerbread !” 

If Nelly’s sorrow at leaving Hanserl’s house 
was deep and sincere, it became downright 
misery when she learned to what they were 
about to remove. She foresaw the impulse his 
extravagance would receive from such a resi- 
dence, and how all the costliness of decoration 
would suggest wasteful outlay. Her father had 
not of late confided to her the circumstances of 
his income. He who once would not change a 
crown without consulting her, and calling in her 
aid to count the pieces and test their genuineness, 
would now negotiate the most important deal- 
ings without her knowledge. From his former 
distrust of Krau3 he grew to believe him the per- 
fection of honesty. There was something so cap- 
tivating to a wasteful man in being freely sup- 
plied with money — with receiving his advances 
in a spirit of apparent frankness — that he would 
find it impossible to connect such liberality with 
a mean or interested motive. Kraus’s little back 
room was then a kind of California, where ho 
could dig at discretion ; and if, in an unusual ao- 
cess of prudence, honest Peter would ask, “ How 
do we stand, Abel ?” Kraus was sure to be 
too busy to look at the books, and would simply 
reply, “ What does it matter ? How much do 
you want?” From such a dialogue as this 
Dalton would issue forth the very happiest of 
men, muttering to himself how different the 
world would have gone with him if he “ had 
known that little chap thirty or forty years ago.” 

Without one gleam of comfort — with terror 
on every side — poor Nelly took possession of 
her splendor, to pass days of unbroken sorrow. 
Gloomy as the unknown future seemed, the 
tidings she received of Kate and Frank were 

i f 

still sadder. 

From her sister she never heard directly. A 
few lines from Madame de Heidendorf, from 
a country-house near St. Petersburg, told her 
that the prince had not succeeded in obtaining 
the Imperial permission, and that the marriage 
was deferred indefinitely ; meanwhile the be- 


266 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


trothed princess lived a life of strict seclusion, 
as the etiquette required, seeing none but such 
members of the royal family as deigned to visit 
her. Poor Nelly’s heart was nigh to bursting 
as she thought over her dear Kate — the gay 
and brilliant child, the happy, joyous girl, now 
pining away in dreary imprisonment. This im- 
age was never out of her mind, and she would 
sit hour after hour in tears for her poor sister. 
What future happiness, however great it might 
be, could repay a youth passed in misery like 
this ? What splendor could efface the impression 
of this dreary solitude, away from all who loved 
and cared for her? 

Of Frartk, the tidings were worse again. A 
short and scarcely intelligible note from Count 
Stephen informed her that, “ although the court- 
martial had pronounced a sentence of death, the 
Emperor, rather than Stain a name distinguished 
by so many traits of devotion to his house, had 
commuted the punishment to imprisonment for 
life at Moncacs. “ There was,” he added, “ a 
slight hope that, after some years, even this 
might be relaxed, and banishment from the Im- 
perial dominions substituted. Meanwhile,” said 
the old soldier, “ I have retired forever from a 
career where, up to this hour, no stain of dis- 
honor attached to me. The name which I bore 
so long with distinction is now branded with 
shame, and I leave the service to pass the few 
remaining days of my life wherever obscurity 
can best hide my sorrow and my ignominy !” 

Although Nelly at once answered this afflict- 
ing letter, and wrote again and again to Vienna, 
to Milan, and to Prague, she never received 
any reply, nor could obtain the slightest clew 
to what the sentence on Frank referred. To 
conceal these terrible events from her father was 
her first impulse ; and although she often ac- 
cused herself of duplicity for so doing, she in- 
variably came round to her early determination. 
To what end embitter the few moments of ease 
he had enjoyed for years past? Why trouble 
him about what is irremediable, and make him 
miserable about those from whom his careless 
indifference asks nothing and requires nothing ? 
Time enough, when the future looks brighter, 
to speak of the sorrows of the past ! 

This task of secrecy was not a difficult one. 
Dalton’s was not a nature to speculate on pos- 
sible mischances, so much as to hope for impos- 
sible good turns of fortune ; and when he knew 
that Kate had sent him money, and Frank did 
not ask for any, the measure of his contentment 
was filled. Kate was a princess, and Frank an 
office of hussars ; and that they were as happy 
as the day was long, he would have taken an 
oath before any “ Justice of the Quorum,” sim- 
ply because he saw no reason why they ought 


not to be so ; and when he drank their healths 
every day after dinner, and finished a bumper 
of champagne to their memory, he perfectly 
satisfied his conscience that he had discharged 
every parental duty in their behalf ! His “ God 
bless you, my darling child!” was the extent 
of his piety as of his affection ; and so he lived 
in the firm belief that he had a heart overflow- 
ing with good, and kind, and generous senti- 
ments. The only unpleasant feelings he had 
arose for Nelly. Her eyes, that in spite of all 
her efforts, showed recent tears — her pale face 
— her anxious, nervous manner, worried and 
amazed him. “ There’s something strange 
about that girl.” he would say to himself; 
“ she would sing the whole day long when we 
hadn’t a shilling beyond the price of our din- 
ner ; she was as merry as a lark, cutting out 
them images till two or three o’clock of a morn- 
ing ; and now that we have lashings and leav- 
ings of every thing with all manner of diversions 
about us, there she sits moping and fretting the 
whole day.” His ingenuity could detect no 
explanation for this. “ To be sure, she was 
lame, and it might grieve her to look at dan- 
cing, in which she could take no part. But when 
did she ever show signs of an envious nature ? 
She was growing old, too — at least she was 
six or seven-and-twenty — and no prospect of 
being married ; but was Nelly the girl to grieve 
over this? Were not all her affections and all 
her hopes home-bound ? ’T wasn’t fretting to be 
back in Ireland that she could be ! — she knew 
little of it before she left it.” And thus he was 
at the end of all his surmises, without being 
nearer the solution. 

We have said enough to show that Nelly’s 
sorrow was not causeless, and that, she had good 
reason to regret the days of even their hardest 
fortune. 

“ Had we been but contented as we were !” 
cried she — “had we resisted ambitions for 
which we were unfitted, and turned away frcm 
“ paths in life” too steep and too arduous for 
our strength, we might have been happy now ! 
Who can say, too, what development of mind 
and intelligence should not have come of this 
life of daily effort and exertion ? Frank would 
have grown manly, patient, and self-relying — 
Kate would have been, as she ever was, the 
light of our home, making us sharers in all those 
gifts of her own bright and happy nature — while 
even I might have risen to worthier efforts of 
skill than those poor failures I have now to 
blush for.” 

Such were the regrets which filled her heart, 
as she sat many an hour in solitude, grieving 
over the past, and yet afraid to face the fu- 
ture. 


CHAPTER LVII. 


“AN ACT OF SETTLEMENT.” 


Were we disposed to heroics, we might com- 
pare Mrs. Ricketts’ sensations, on entering the 
grounds of the villa, to the feelings experienced 
by the ancient Gauls when, from the heights of 
the Alps, they gazed down on the fertile plains 
of Italy. If less colored by the glorious hues 
of conquering ambition, they were not the less 
practical. She saw that, with her habitual 
good fortune, she had piloted the Ricketts’ 
barque into a safe and pleasant anchorage, 
where she might at her leisure refit and lay in 
stores for future voyaging. Already she knew 
poor Dalton, as she herself said, from “ cover to 
cover” — she had sounded all the shallows and 
shoals of his nature, and read his vanity, his 
vain-glorious importance, and his selfish pride, 
as though they were printed on his forehead. 
Were Nelly to be like Kate, the victory, she 
thought, could not be very difficult. “ Let her 
have but one predominant passion, and be it 
love of admiration, avarice, a taste for dress, for 
scandal, or for grand society, it matters not, I’ll 
soon make her my own.” 

u This will do ! Martha,” whispered she, in 
Miss Ricketts’ ear, as they drove up the ap- 
proach. 

“ I think so,” was the low uttered reply. 

te Tell Scroope to be cautious — very cau- 
tious,” whispered she once more ; and then 
turned to Dalton, to expatiate on the beauty of 
the grounds, and the exquisite taste displayed in 
their arrangement. 

“ It has cost me a mint of money,” said Dal- 
ton, giving away irresistibly to his instinct of 
boastfulness. “ Many of those trees you see 
there came from Spain and Portugal, and not 
only the trees, but the earth that’s round 
them.” 

“Did you hear that, Martha?” interposed 
Mrs. Ricketts. “ Mr. Dalton very wisely re- 
marks that man is of all lands, while the infe- 
rior productions of nature require their native 
soils as a condition of existence.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” said Dalton, fathering the 
sentiment at once ; “ ’tis only the Blacks that 
can’t bear the cowld. But, after all, maybe, 
they’re not the same as ourselves.” 

“I own I never could think them so,” smiled 
Mrs. Ricketts, as though the very appearance 
of Peter Dalton had confirmed the prejudice. 

“ Faix ! I’m glad to hear you say that,” said 
he, delightedly. “ ’Tis many’s the battle Nelly 
and me has about that very thing. — There’s 
the Villa, now— what d’ye think of it?” 


“ Charming — beautiful — a paradise !” 

“ Quite a paradise !” echoed Martha. 

“ ’Tis a mighty expensive paradise, let me 
tell you,” broke in Peter. “ I’ve a gardener, 
and four chaps under him, and Sorrow a thing I 
ever see them do but cut nosegays and stick lit- 
tle bits of wood in the ground, with hard names 
writ on them : that’s w’hat they call gardening 
here. As for a spade or a hoe, there’s not one 
in the country ; they do every thing w T ith a case- 
knife and watering-pot.” 

“ You amaze me,” said Mrs. Ricketts, who 
was determined on being instructed in horti- 
culture. 

“ There’s a fellow’ now, wdth a bundle of 
moss-roses for Nelly, and there’s another put- 
ting out the parrot’s cage under a tree — that’s 
the day’s work for both of them.” 

“ And are you not happy, to think how your 
ample means diffuse ease and enjoyment on all 
around you? Don’t tell me that the pleasure 
you feel is not perfect ecstasy.” 

“ That’s one way of considering it,” said 
Dalton, dubiously, for he w T as not quite sure 
whether he could, or could not, yield his con- 
currence. 

“ But if people didn’t la — la — la — ” 

“ Lay a bed, you mean,” cried Dalton ; 
“that’s just what they do; a German wouldn’t 
ask to awake at all, if it wasn’t to light his pipe.” 

“ I meant la — la — labor ; if they didn’t la — 
labor the ground, w r e should all be starved.” 

“ No political economy, Scroope,” cried Mrs. 
Ricketts ; “ I will not permit it. That dread- 
ful science is a passion with him, Mr. Dalton.” 

“Is it?” said Peter, confusedly, to w’hose 
ears the w’ord economy only suggested notions 
of saving and sparing. “ I can only say,” add- 
ed he, after a pause, “ tastes differ, and I never 
could abide it at all.” 

“ I was certain of it,” resumed Mrs. Ricketts, 
“ but here comes a young lady toward us — Miss 
Dalton, I feel it must be.” 

The surmise was quite correct. It w r as 
Nelly, w T ho, in expectation of meeting her fa- 
ther, had w’alked down from the house, and 
now, seeing a carriage, stood half irresolute 
what to do. 

“ Yes, that’s Nelly,” cried Dalton, springing 
down to the ground; “she’ll be off now, for 
she thinks it’s visitors come to see the place.” 

While Dalton hastened to overtake his daugh- 
ter, Mrs. Ricketts had time to descend and 
shake out all her plumage — a proceeding of 


268 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


manual dexterity to which Martha mainly con- 
tributed ; indeed, it was almost artistic in its 
way, for while feathers were disposed to droop 
here, and lace taught to fall gracefully there, 
the fair Zoe assumed the peculiar mood in 
which she determined on conquest. 

“ How do I look, Martha ?” said she, brid- 
ling up, and then smiling. 

“ Very sweetly — quite charming,” replied 
Martha. 

“I know that,” said the other, pettishly; 
“but am I maternal — am I affectionate?” 

“Very maternal — most affectionate,” was 
the answer. , 

“ You're a fool,” said Mrs. Ricketts, con- 
temptuously ; but had barely time to restore 
her features to their original blandness, when 
Nelly came up. The few words in which her 
father had announced Mrs. Ricketts, spoke of 
her as one who had known and been kind to 
Kate, and Nelly wanted no stronger recommen- 
dation to her esteem. 

The quiet, gentle manner of the young girl, 
the almost humble simplicity of her dress at 
once suggested to Mrs. Ricketts the tone prop- 
er for the occasion, and she decided on being 
natural ; which, to say truth, was the most re- 
mote thing from nature it is well possible to 
conceive. Poor Nelly was not, however, a very 
shrewd critic, and she felt quite happy to be so 
much at her ease as they walked along to the 
house together. 

Mrs. Ricketts saw that Kate was the key- 
note to all her sister’s affection, and therefore 
talked away of her unceasingly. To have heard 
her, one would have thought they had been in- 
separable, and that Kate had confided to the 
dear old lady the most secret thoughts of her 
heart. The amiable Zoe did, indeed, contrive 
to effect this, rather by the aid of an occasional 
sigh, a tone of lamentation and sorrow, than by 
direct assertion ; all conveying the impression 
that she was cut to the heart about something, 
but would rather be “ brayed in a mortar” than 
tell it. Martha’s mild and submissive manner 
won rapidly on Nelly, and she wondered whether 
Kate had liked her. In fact, the visitors were 
all so ver} r unlike the usual company her father 
presented to her, she felt disposed to think the 
best of them ; and even Scroope came in for a 
share of her good opinion. 

The interior of the villa changed the current 
of conversation, and now T Mrs. Ricketts felt her- 
self at home, examining the rich brocade of the 
hangings, the bronzes, and the inlaid tables. 

“ Lyons silk — twenty-four francs a metre !” 
whispered she to Scroope. 

“ I thought they hadn’t a s — s — six — pence,” 
observed the other. 

“ All these things are new, Scroope ! — all 
new !” 

“I — I — I was ob — serving that, sister.” 

u What a creature he is, Scroope ! — what a 
creature !” 

“ And the daughter, I suspect, is only ha — ha 
— half — witted.” 


“ Humph !” ejaculated Zoe, as though she 
did not quite coincide with that opinion. 

The confidential dialogue was broken in upon 
by Dalton, who, having dragged the poor gen- 
eral over the terrace and the flower-garden, 
was now showing them the inside of the dwell- 
ing. 

“ If I could but see dear Kate here !” sighed 
Mrs. Ricketts, as she slowly sank into a downy 
chair, “ I’d fancy this was home. It’s all so 
like herself — such graceful elegance, such taste- 
ful splendor.” 

“It’s neat — I think it’s neat,” said Dalton, 
almost bursting with the effort to repress his 
delight. 

“ Oh, sir, it’s princely ! It’s worthy the 
great name of its possessor. Dear Kate often 
told me of her beautiful home.” 

“ I thought you li — li — lived — over a toy- 
shop? Foglass said you li — lived — ” 

“ So we did, while the place was getting 
ready,” said Dalton, flushing. 

“ Just let me sit here, and watch the rippling 
of that shining river !” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, 
laying her hand on Dalton’s, and, by a melting 
look, withdrawing him from Scroope’s unlucky 
reminiscence. “If I could but pass the night 
here, I feel it would be ecstacy.” 

“ What easier, if it’s in earnest you are ?” 
cried Dalton. “ We never make use of this 
little drawing-room. Nelly will get you a bed 
put up in it in five minutes.” 

“ Isn’t that Irish, Scroope ! — isn’t that what 
1 often told you of Ireland?” cried Zoe, as her 
eyes glistened. 

“Well, but I’m not joking,” resumed Dalton; 
“small as the place is, we can make room for 
you all. We’ll put Miss Martha in Nelly’g 
room, and the general can have mine ; and 
there’s a mighty snug little place for you in the 
garden.” 

“ Oh, dear, dear, dear Ireland, howl love you 1” 
said Mrs. Ricketts, closing her eyes, and affect- 
ing to talk in her sleep. 

“ There’s worse places,” murmured Dalton, 
who drank in national flattery as the pleasantest 
“ tipple” after personal. “ But say the word, 
now, and see if we won’t make you comfort- 
able.” 

“ Comfortable ! — you mean happy, supremely 
happy,” ejaculated Zoe. 

“And there’s no inconvenience in it, none 
whatever,” continued Dalton, who now was 
breast high in his plot. “ That’s a fine thing 
in this little town of Baden ; you can have every 
thing at a moment’s warning, from a sirloin of 
beef to a strait- waistcoat.” 

Now Mrs. Ricketts laughed, till her eyes 
overflowed with tears, at Dalton’s drollery ; and 
Scroope, too, cackled his own peculiar cry ; 
and the old general chimed in with a faint 
wheezing sound — a cross between the wail of 
an infant and a death-rattle; in the midst of 
which Dalton hurried away to seek Nelly, who 
was showing the garden to Martha. 

“Now, mind me, Scroope,” cried Mrs. Rick 


269 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


etts, as soon as they were alone, “ no selfish- 
ness, no eternal trouble about your own com- 
fort. We may probably pass the summer here, 

and — •” 

!C But I — I — I — won’t sleep under the stairs, 

I — I — I — promise you,” cried he, angrily. 

“ You had a dear little room, with a lovely 
view, at Noeringhen. You are most ungrate- 
ful.” 

“ It was a d — dear little room, six feet 
square, and looked out on a tannery. My skin 
would have been leather if I st — st — stayed an- 
other week in it.” 

“ Martha slept in a wardrobe, and never com- 
plained.” 

“ For that matter, I passed two months in a 
sh — shower-bath,” cried Scroope ; “but I — I — 
won’t do it a — any more.” 

To what excesses his rebellious spirit might 
have carried him it is hard to say, for Dalton 
now came up with Nelly, who was no less eager 
than her father to offer the hospitalities of the 
Villa. At the hazard of detracting in the 
reader’s esteem from all this generous liberali- 
ty, we feel bound to add, that neither Dalton 
nor his daughter ever speculated on the length- 
ened sojourn Mrs. Ricketts’ more prophetic spirit 
fore-shadowed. 

The accidental mistake about the hotel first 
suggested the offer, which of course the next 
day was sure to obviate. And now, as it has 
so often been an unpleasant task to record little 
flaws and frailties of the Ricketts’ nature, let 
us take the opportunity of mentioning some 
traits of an opposite kind, which, even as a “ set 
oft',” are not valueless. Nothing could be more 
truly amiable than the conduct of the whole 
family when the question of their stay had been 
resolved upon. Had Scroope been bred a cabi- 
net-maker, he couldn’t have been handier with 
bed-screws, laths, and curtain-rods. Martha, 
divested of shawl and bonnet, arranged toilet- 
tables and looking-glasses like the most accom- 
plished housemaid; while, reclined in her easy 
chair, the fair Zoe vouchsafed praises on all the 
efforts around her, and nodded, as Jove might, 
on mortal endeavors to conciliate him. 

Poor Nelly was in ecstasy at all this good- 
ness ; such a united family was a perfect picture. 
Nothing seemed to inconvenience them — no- 
thing went wrong. There was a delightfully 
playful spirit in the way they met and con- 
quered little difficulties, and whenever hard 
pushed by Fate, there was a wonderful reticule 
of Mrs. Ricketts’ which was sure to contain 
something to extricate them at once. Since 
Aladdin’s lamp, there never was such a magical 
contrivance as that bag ; and the Wizard of the 
North, who makes pancakes in a gentleman’s 
hat and restores it unstained, and who, from the 
narrow limits of a snuff-box, takes out feathers 
enough to stuff a pillow-case, would have paled 
before the less surprising but more practical 
resources of the “Ricketts’ sack.” 

Various articles of toilet necessity, from ob- 
jeots peculiarly the lady's own, down to the 


general’s razors, made their appearance. An 
impertinent curiosity might have asked why a 
lady going to dine at a public ordinary should 
have carried about with her such an array of 
flannel jackets, cordials, lotions, slippers, hair- 
brushes, and nightcaps ; but it is more than 
likely that Mi’s. Ricketts would have smiled at 
the short-sighted simplicity of the questioner, as 
she certainly did at poor Nelly’s face of quiet 
astonishment. 

It was a downright pleasure to make sacri- 
fices for people so ready to accommodate them- 
selves to circumstances, and who seemed to 
possess a physical pliancy not inferior to the 
mental one. The general wanted no window 
to shave at. Martha could bestow herself 
within limits that seemed impossible to humani- 
ty. As for Scroope, he was what French dram- 
atists call “a grand utility” — now climbing up 
ladders to arrange curtain-rods, now descending 
to the cellars in search of unknown and name- 
less requisites. A shrewd observer might have 
wondered that such extensive changes in the 
economy of a household were effected for the 
sake of one night’s accommodation ; but this 
thought neither occurred to Dalton nor his 
daughter, who were, indeed, too full of admira- 
tion for their guests’ ingenuity and readiness, 
to think of any thing else. 

As for honest Peter, a house full of company 
was his delight. As he took his place that 
evening at the supper-table, he was supremely 
happy. Nor was it wonderful, considering the 
pleased looks and bland faces that he saw on 
each side of him. All his stories were new to 
his present audience. Mount Dalton and its 
doings were an anecdote mine, of which they 
had never explored a single “shaft.” The 
grandeur of his family was a theme all listened 
to with interest and respect ; and as Mrs. Rick- 
etts’s flattery was well-timed and cleverly ad- 
ministered, and Scroope’s blunders fewer and 
less impertinent than usual, the evening was 
altogether a very pleasant one, and, as the cant 
is, went off admirably. 

If Nelly had now and then little misgivings 
about the over-anxiety to please displayed by 
Mrs. Ricketts, and a certain exaggerated ap- 
preciation she occasionally bestowed upon her 
father’s “ Irishisms,” she was far too distrustful 
of her own judgment not to set down her fears 
to ignorance of life and its conventionalities, 
“It would ill become /ier,” she thought, “to 
criticise people so well-bred and so well-man- 
nered and this modest depreciation of herself 
saved the others. 

It was thus that the hosts felt toward their 
guests as they wished them good-night, and 
cordially shook hands at parting. 

“ As agreeable an old lady as ever I met,” 
said Dalton to his daughter ; “ and not wanting 
in good sense, either.” 

“I like Miss Martha greatly,” said Nelly. 
“ She is so gently-mannered and so mild, I’m 
sure Kate was fond of her.” 

“ I like them all but the little chap with 


270 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the stutter, he seems so curious about every 
thing.” 

“ They are all so pleased — so satisfied with 
every thing,” said Nelly, enthusiastically. 

“And why wouldn’t they? There’s worse 
quarters, let me tell you, than this ! It isn’t 
under Peter Dalton’s roof that people go to bed 
hungry. I wouldn’t wonder if they’d pass a 
day or two with us.” 

“Do you think so?” said Nelly, scarcely 
knowing whether to be pleased or the reverse. 

“We’ll see to-morrow,” said Dalton, as he 
took his candle and began to climb up the stairs 
to the room which he was now to occupy instead 
of his own chamber, singing, as he went, an old 
ballad : 

The whole Balrothery hunt was there, and welcome were 
they all ! 

With two in a bed, and four on the stairs, and twelve in 
the bachelor’s hall ! 

Leaving Dalton to con over the stray verses 
of his once favorite balled as he dropped off to 
sleep, we turn for a moment to the chamber 
which, by right of conquest, was held by the 
fair Zoe, and where, before a large mirror, she 
was now seated ; while Martha was engaged 
upon that wonderful head, whose external ma- 
chinery was almost as complex as its internal. 
Mrs. Ricketts had resolved upon adopting a 
kind of materno-protective tone toward Nelly; 
and the difficulty now was to hit off a “ coiffure” 
to sustain that new character. It should com- 
bine the bland with the dignified, arid be simple 
without being severe. There was something 
Memnonic in that large old head, from which 
the gray hair descended in massive falls, that 
seemed worthy of better things than a life of 
potty schemes and small intrigues ; and the pa- 
tient Martha looked like one whose submissive 
nature should have been bent to less ignoble 
burdens than the capricious fretfulness of a tire- 
some old woman. But so is it every day in 
life : qualities are but what circumstances make 
them, and even great gifts become but sorry 
aids when put to base uses ! 

There was another figure in the group, and 
for him no regrets arise as to talents misapplied 
and tastes perverted. Nature had created Scroope 
Purvis for one line of character, and he never 
ventured to walk out of it. In a large and 
showy dressing-gown belonging to his host, and 
a pair of most capacious slippers from the same 
wardrobe, Scroope had come down to assist at 
a Cabinet Council. He had just performed a 
voyage of discovery round the house, having 
visited every available nook, from the garret to 
the cellars, and not omitting the narrow cham- 
ber to which Nelly herself had retired, with 
whom he kept up an amicable conversation for 
several minutes, under pretense of having mis- 
taken his room. Thence he had paid a visit to 
old Andy’s den ; and, after a close scrutiny of 
the larder, and a peep between the bars at the 
dairy, came back with the honest conviction 
that he had done his duty. 

“It’s sm — small, sister — it’s very small,” 
said he, entering her chamber. 


“ It’s not smaller than Mrs. Balfour’s cottage 
at the Lakes, and you know we spent a summer 
there,” said the lady, rebukingly. 

“ But we had it all to — to — our — selves, sis- 
ter.” 

“ So much the worse. A cook and a cellar 
are admirable fixtures. The curls lower down 
on the sides, Martha. I don’t want to look like 
Grisi.” There was something comforting in 
the last assurance, for it would have sorely 
tested poor Martha’s skill had the wish been 
the reverse. 

“ They don’t seem to ha — have been long 
here, sister. The knife-board in the scullery 
hasn’t been used above a — a — few times. I 
shouldn’t wonder if old Da — Da — Dalton won 
the Villa at play.” 

“ Fudge ! — Fuller on the brow, Martha — 
more expansive there.” 

“ Isn’t the girl vulgar, sister?” asked Scroope. 

“Decidedly vulgar, and dressed like a fright! 

I thought it was only you, Martha, that rolled 
up the back hair like a snail’s shell.” Martha 
blushed, but never spoke. “ I suppose she’s the 
same that used to cut the pipe-heads and the 
umbrella-tops. I remarked that her fingers 
were all knotted and hard.” 

“ Her smile is very pleasing,” submitted 
Martha, diffidently. 

“It’s like her father’s laugh — far too natural 
for my taste ! There’s no refinement, no ele- 
gance, in one of ) r our sweet, unmeaning smiles. 

I thought I had told you that at least twenty 
times, Martha. But you have grown self-will- 
ed and self-opinionated of late, and I must say, 
you couldn’t have a graver fault ! Correct it 
in time, I beseech you.” 

“ I’ll try,” said Martha, in a very faint voice. 

“If you try, you’ll succeed. Look at your 
brother. See what he has become. There’s 
an example might stimulate you.” 

Another and a far deeper sigh was all Mar- 
tha’s acknowledgment of this speech. 

“ He was the same violent, impetuous creat- 
ure that you are. There, you needn’t tear my 
hair out by the roots to prove it ! He wouldn’t 
brook the mildest remonstrance ; he w T as pas- 
sionate and irrestrainable, and see — see what 
I’ve made him. Oh, you spiteful creature, how 
you hurt me !” 

This cry of pain was not quite causeless, foi 
Martha was trembling from head to foot, and 
actually only saved herself from falling by a me- 
chanical clutch at something like a hoi'se’s tail. 
With many excuses, and in a voice broken by 
regrets, she resumed her task with a vigorous 
effort for success, vrhile Mrs. Ricketts and 
Purvis exchanged glances of supreme contempt. 

“ I speak to you, Martha,” resumed she, 
“for your own sake. You can not see what 
all the world sees — the sinful selfishness of your 
nature — a vice, I must say, the less pardonable, 
that you live beneath the shadow of my coun- 
sels ! — Scroope, don’t creak that chair — sit upon 
that stool there. Now that we shall probably 
spend two months here — ” 


271 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


£C Here ! — Do — do you m — mean here ?” 
cried Purvis. 

“ Of course I mean here, sir. There’s no- 
thing in the shape of a lodging to be had under 
three and four hundred francs a month. This 
is a very sweet place, and when the old gentle- 
man can be induced to take a room in the town 
lor himself, and that his daughter learns, as she 
will — though certainly not from Martha — what 
is due to me ! it will be comfortable and con- 
venient. We’ll ask the princess, too, to spend a 
week with us : for who knows, in the present 
state of politics, to what corner of Germany w T e 
may yet be reduced to fly !” 

u How will you m — m — manage with Hag- 
gerstone and the rest, when they arrive, sister ?” 

“ Easily enough. I’ll show them that it’s 
for their advantage that we are here. It is 
true that we agreed to take a house together ; 
but every plan is modified by the events of the 
campaign. Petrolaflsky will be content if Mr. 
Dalton plays picquet; the Colonel will like his 
claret and Burgundy ; and Foglass will be 
pleased with the retirement that permits him to 
prosecute his attentions to Martha.” 

Poor Martha blushed crimson at the tone, 
rather, even than the words of the speech, for, 
when nothing else offered, it was the practice of 
Mrs. Ricketts to insinuate coquetry as among 
her sister’s defects. 

“You needn’t look so much confused, my 
dear,” resumed the torturer. “I’m certain it’s 
not the first affair of the kind you’ve know T n.” 

“ Oh, sister !” cried Martha, in a voice of 
almost entreaty. 

“ Not that I think there would be any thing 
unsuitable in the match ; he is probably fifty- 
eight or nine — sixty at most — and, excepting 
deafness and the prosy tendency natural to his 
time of life, pretty much like every body else.” 

“ You know sister, that he never thought of 
me, nor I of Aim.” 

“ I know that I am not in the confidence of 
either party,” said Mrs. Ricketts, bridling ; “ and 
I also know I am sincerely happy that my head 
is not crammed with such fiddle-faddle. Before 
the great event comes off, how’ever, you will 
have time to attend to something else, and 
therefore I beg you will keep in mind what I 
am about to say to you. We are here, Mar- 
tha,” resumed she, with all the solemnity of a 
judicial charge — “ we are here by no claims of 
relationship or previous friendship. No secret 
ties of congenial tastes bind us up together. 
No common attachment to some other dear 
creature forms a link between us. We are 
here as much by chance as one can venture to 
call any thing in this unhappy world. Let us, 
then, show Fortune that we are not unworthy 
of her goodness, by neglecting nothing which 
may strengthen our position and secure our per- 
manence. In a w T ord, Martha, throw over all 
rour selfishness — forget the miserable egotism 
that besets you, and study that young girl’s 
character and wishes. She has never been 
courted in life, flatter her— she has never been 


even thought of, show her every consideration ; 
she is evidently of a thoughtful turn, and nobody 
can mope better than yourself. Insinuate your- 
self day by day into little household affairs, 
mingling counsels here, and warning there — 
always on the side of economy — so that whilo 
affecting only to play with the reins, you’ll end 
by driving the coach.” 

“ I’m afraid I’ve no head for all this, sister.” 

“ Of course you havn’t, nor for anything else 
without me to guide you. I’m perfectly aware 
of that. But you can learn. You can at least 
obey !” 

“ My sister means that you can st — st — 
struggle against the natural w r — w — willfulness 
of your d — disposition,” cackled in Purvis. 

“ I’ll do my best,” murmured Martha, in a 
voice of humility. 

“ Women are so fond of sa — saving,” cried 
Scroope, “ you always be safe when you c — c — 
cut down the estimates.” 

“ Attend to that, Martha !” remarked Mrs. 
Ricketts. 

“ Find out the price of ch — chickens, and 
always buy them a kreutzer cheaper than she 
has done.” 

“ There is nothing gives such an ascendency 
in a house as showing that you can maintain 
the establishment for fourpence less per quar- 
ter,” said Zoe, gravely. “I have knowrn con- 
nubial happiness, that has stood the test of tem- 
per and illness for years, wrecked on the small 
rock of a cook’s bill. Like all wasteful men, 
you may be sure that this Dalton has many 
miserly habits. Learn these, and indulge them. 
There was that poor Marquis of Binchley, that 
never dined without a hundred wax candles in 
the room, left all his fortune to a nephew he 
once found collecting the sealing-wax from old 
letters and making it up for fresh use. Reflect 
upon this, Martha ; and always bear in mind 
that the vices of mankind are comparatively 
uninstructive. It is their foibles, their small 
weaknesses, that teach every thing.” 

“ When Ha — Ha — Haggerstone comes, and 
finds no room for him, you’ll ha — ha — have the 
devil to pay.” 

“ He shall “take it out” in dinners, Scroope ; 
and what between drinking Dalton’s wine wuth 
him, and abusing him behind his back, you’ll 
see, he’ll be perfectly happy.” 

“ How long do you purpose to st — stay here, 
sister?’^ asked Scroope. 

“ Ask the butterfly how long the rose and the 
hyacinth will bloom,” said Mrs. Ricketts, pen- 
sively; for, by dint of smiling at herself in the 
looking-glass, she had come round to that mock 
poetical vein which ran through her strange, in- 
congruous nature. “ And now good night, 
dears,” sighed she. “ These are sweet mo- 
ments, but they are paid for at a price. Ex- 
hausted energies will have repose.” She held 
out her hand to Martha, who kissed it respect- 
fully, and then waved a graceful adieu to Pur- 
vis as he retired. 

“ Sister Zoe has a head for every thing,” 


272 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE 


muttered Purvis to Martha. “ There’s nothing 
*he’s not up to.” 

“ She is very clever indeed !” sighed Mar- 
tha. 

“ And this isn’t the worst h — hit she has 
ever made. It was d — deueedly well done, to 
get in here.” 

Either Martha didn’t concur in the senti- 
ment, or that Scroope’s satisfaction did not need 
any backing, for she made no reply. 

“ They’ve given me a capital room ; I fa — 
fancy Dalton’s own, for I found a heap of old 
bills and letters in a table-drawer, and some- 
thing like a — like a — like a writ”- — here he 
laughed till the tears came at the drollery of 
the thought — “in the pocket of his dressing- 
gown.” 

“ Good-night,” said Martha, softly, as she 
glided into the little chamber allotted to her. 
Poor Martha ! Save Nelly’s, hers was the sad- 
dest heart beneath that roof. For the first 
time in all her long years of trial, a ray of 
doubt, a flash of infidelity had broken upon her 
mind, and the thought of her sister-in-law’s in- 
fallibility became for a moment suspected. It 
was not that abused and outraged submission 
was goaded into rebellion ; it was dormant rea- 
son that was suddenly startled into a pass- 
ing wakefulness. It was like one of those fit- 
ful gleams of intelligence which now and then 
dart across the vacuity of dulled intellects, and, 
like such, it was only a meteor-flash, and left no 
trace of light beyond it. Even in all its brief- 
ness the anguish it gave was intense ; it was 
the delusion of a whole life rent asunder at 
once, and the same shock which should convulse 
the moral world of her thoughts, would rob her 
of all the pleasantest fancies of her existence. 
If Zoe were not all goodness and all genius, 
what was to become of all the household gods 
of the Villino ? Titians would moulder aw r ay 


into stained and smoked panels ; “ Sevres” and 
“ Saxe” would fall down to pasteboard and 
starch ; carved oak and ebony would resolve 
themselves into leather ; end even the friendship 
of Princes and the devotion of Philosophers be 
only a mockery, a sham and a snare ! 

Poor Martha ! Deprived of these illusions, 
life was but one unceasing round of toil ; while, 
aided by Imagination, she could labor on un- 
wearied. Without a thought of deception, she 
gloried in the harmless frauds to which she con- 
tributed, but couldn’t resist the contagion of 
credulity around her. How easily could such a 
spirit have been moulded to every good gift, 
and qualities like these have been made to min- 
ister to comfort and happiness, and the faith that 
w r as given to gilt paper, and glue, and varnish, 
elevated to all that is highest in the moral and 
material world ! 

And now they were all in slumber beneath 
that roof — all, save one. Poor Nelly sat at her 
window, tearful and sad. In the momentary 
excitement of receiving her guests she had for- 
gotten her cares ; but now they came back upon 
her, coupled with all the fears their wasteful 
habits could suggest. At times she blamed her- 
self for the tame cowardice which beset her, 
and restrained her from every effort to avert the 
coming evil ; and at times she resigned herself 
to the gloomy future, with the stern patience of 
the Indian who saw his canoe swept along into 
the rapids above the cataract. There was not 
one to turn to for advice or counsel, and the 
strength that would have sustained her in any 
other trial, was here sapped by the dread of 
giving pain to her father. “ It would ill become 
me to give him cause for sorrow — I, that of all 
his children have ministered nothing to his pride 
nor his happiness !” Such was the estimate 
she held of herself, and such the reasoning that 
flow T ed from it. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

THE " KURSAAL.” 


The attempt to accommodate a company to 
which the house was unsuited would have been 
a soui'ce of painful annoyance to most men. To 
Peter Dalton it was unqualified pleasure. The 
subversion of all previous arrangement, the total 
change in the whole order of domesticity were 
his delight. The changing of rooms, the being 
sent to sleep in strange and inconvenient corners, 
the hurry-scurry endeavors to find a substitute 
for this or a representative for that, the ingen- 
ious devices to conceal a want, or to supply a 
deficiency, afforded him the most lively amuse- 
ment ; and he went about rubbing his hands, 
and muttering that it did his heart good. It was 
“ so like Mount Dalton when he was a boy. 

All Mrs. Ricketts’ softest blandishments were 
so many charms clean thrown away. His 
thoughts were centred on himself and his own 
amiable qualities, and he reveled in the notion 
that the world did not contain another as truly 
generous and as hospitable as Peter Dalton. In 
accordance with the singular contradictions of 
which his character was made up, he was will- 
ing to incur every sacrifice of personal incon- 
venience, if it only served to astonish some one, 
or excite a sensation of surprise at his good-na- 
ture ; and while all Nelly’s efforts were to con- 
ceal the inconveniences these hospitalities in- 
flicted, Peter was never satisfied except when 
the display could reflect honor on himself, and 
exact a tribute of flattery from his guests. Nor 
was he all this time in ignorance of Mrs. 
Ricketts’ character. With native shrewdness 
he had at cnce detected her as an “ old sol- 
dier;” he saw the practiced readiness of her 
compliance with every thing ; he saw the spirit 
of accommodation in which she met every plan 
or project; he knew the precise value of her 
softest look or her sweetest smile ; and yet he 
was quite content with possessing the knowledge 
without any desire to profit by it. Like one 
who sits down to play with sharpers, and re- 
solves that either the stake shall be a trifle, or 
the roguery be very limited, he surrendered 
himself to the fair Zoe’s seductions, with this 
sort of a reservation to guide him. 

If Mrs. Ricketts did not cheat him by her 
goodness, she took her revenge by the claims of 
her grandeur. Her intimacy with great people 
. — the very greatest — exalted her to the high- 
est place in Dalton’s esteem. Honest Peter 
knew nothing of the years of toil and pain — the 
subtle arts — the deep devices — the slights — the 
S 


affronts — the stern rebuffs here — the insolent 
denials there — by which these acquisitions, pre- 
carious as they were, had been w T on. He did 
not know how much of the royalty was left- 
handed, nor how much of the nobility was fac- 
titious. All he could see was the gracious sa- 
lutes wafted to her from coroneted carriages, 
the soft smiles wafted from high places, the rec- 
ognitions bestowed on her in the promenade, and 
the gracious nods that met her in the Kursaal. 

Mrs. Ricketts was perfect in all the skill of 
this peculiar game, and knew how, by the most 
ostentatious display of respect in public, not 
only to exalt the illustrious personage who 
deigned to acknowledge her, but also to attach 
notice to herself as the individual so highly fa- 
. vored. What reverential courtesies would she 
drop before the presence of some small Ger- 
man “Hochheit,” with a gambling-house for a 
palace, and a roulette-table for an exchequer ! 
What devotional observances would she per- 
form in front of the chair of some snuffy old 
Dowager “ Herzoginn,” of an unknown or for- 
gotten principality ! How pertinaciously would 
she remain standing till some “ Durchlaut” was 
“ out of the horizon ;” or how studiously would 
she retire before the advancing step of some 
puny potentate — a monarch of three hussars 
and thirty chamberlains ! Poor Peter was but 
a sorry pupil in this “ School of Design.” He 
found it difficult to associate rank with unwash- 
ed faces and unbrushed clothes ; and, although 
he did bow, and flourish his hat, and perform 
all the other semblances of respect, he always 
gave one the idea of an irreverential acolyte, 
at the back of a profoundly impressed and dig- 
nified Pligh Priest. 

Dalton was far more at his ease when he 
paraded the rooms with Mrs. Ricketts on one 
arm and Martha on the other, enjoying heartily 
all the notice they elicited, and accepting, as 
honest admiration, the staring wonderment and 
surprise their appearance was sure to excite. 
Mrs. Ricketts, who had always something geo- 
graphical about her taste in dress, had this year 
leaned toward the Oriental, and accordingly pre- 
sented herself before the admiring world of 
Baden in a richly-spangled muslin turban, and! 
the very shortest of petticoats, beneath which 
appeared a pair of ample trousers, whose deep 
lace frills covered the feet, and even swept the 
floor; a paper-knife of silver gilt, made to re- 
semble a yataghan, and a smelling bottle in the 


274 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


counterfeit of a pistol glittered at her girdle, 
which, with the aid of a very-well-arched pair 
of painted eyebrows, made up as presentable a 
sultana as one usually sees in a second-rate the- 
atre. If Dalton’s blue coat, and tight nankeen 
pantaloons — his favorite full-dress costume — did 
somewhat destroy the “ Bosphorean illusion,” as 
Zoe herself called it, still more did Martha’s 
plain black silk, and straw bonnet — both types 
of the strictly useful, without the slightest taint 
of extraneous ornament. 

Purvis and the general, as they brought up 
the rear, came also in for their meed of sur- 
prise. The one, lost under a mass of cloaks, 
shawls, scarfs, and carpets ; and the other, 
moving listlessly along through the crowded 
rooms, heedless of the mob and the music, and 
seeming to follow his leader with a kind of fat- 
uous instinct utterly destitute of volition, or even 
of thought. A group, so singularly costumed, 
seen every day dining at the most costly table, 
ordering whatever was most expensive ; the 
patrons of the band, and the numerous flower- 
girls, whose bouquets were actually strewed be- 
neath their feet, were sure to attract the notice 
of the company ; a tribute, it must be owned, 
which invariably contains a strong alloy of all 
that is ill-natured, sarcastic, and depreciating. 
Zoe was an European celebrity ; known and rec- 
ognized by every one. The only difficulty was 
to learn who the new “ Victim” was, whence he 
came, and what means he possessed ? 

There are very few places where inventive 
genius more predominates than at Baden, and 
Dalton was alternately a successful Speculator 
in railroads — a South American Adventurer — a 
Slaver — and a Carlist Agent : characters for 
which honest Peter had about as many requi- 
sites as he possessed for Hamlet or Cardinal 
Wolsey. He seemed to have abundance of mo- 
ney, however, and played high — two qualities 
of no small request in this favored region. 
Dalton’s gambling tastes were all originally as- 
sociated with the turf and its followers ; a race 
in his eyes was the legitimate subject of a bet ; 
and if any thing else could rival it in interest, it 
was some piece of personal prowess or skill, 
some manly game of strength or activity. To 
men of this stamp the wager is merely a pledge 
to record the sentiments they entertain upon a 
particular event. It is not as gamesters under- 
stand it, the whole sum and substance of the in- 
terest. Personal pride, the vain glory of suc- 
cess, is the triumph in one case ; in the other 
there is no question of any thing save gain. To 
this difference may be traced the wide disparity 
of feeling exhibited by both in moments of fail- 
ing fortune. To one, loss comes with all the har- 
assing sensations of defeat; wounded self-es- 
teem, and baffled hope, giving poignancy to the 
failure. To the other, it is a pure question of a 
moneyed forfeiture, unaccompanied with a single 
thought that can hurt the pride of the player. 
Hence the wild transports of passion in the one 
case, and the calm, cold self-possession in the 
other. 


We need scarcely say to which class Dalton 
belonged ; indeed, so far as the public play at 
Baden was concerned, it was the notoriety that 
pleased him most. The invariable falling back 
to make way for him as he came up ; the mur- 
mur of his name as he passed on ; the com- 
ments on what he would probably do ; and, not 
least of all the buzz of admiring astonishment 
that was sure to arise as he plumped down be- 
fore him the great canvas bag, full of gold, 
which the banker’s porter had just handed him ! 

All the little courtesies of the croupiers, thoso 
little official flatteries which mean so much 
and so little, were especially reserved for Mm ; 
and the unlucky player, who watched his soli- 
tary napoleons “ raked in ” by a yawning, list- 
loss croupier, became suddenly aware, by the 
increased alacrity of look around him, that a 
higher interest was awakened as Peter drew 
nigh. 1 • 

> The “ Count’s” chair was ostentatiously 
placed next the banker’s ; a store of cards to 
mark the chances laid before him ; the grave 
croupier — he looked like an archdeacon — passed 
his gold snuff-box across the table ; the smartly 
wigged and wmisteoated one at his side present- 
ed the cards to cut, with some whispered re- 
mark that was sure to make Dalton laugh hearti- 
ly. The sensation of this entree was certain to 
last some minutes; and even the impatience of 
the players to resume the game, was a tribute 
that Dalton accepted as complimentary to the 
bustle of his approach. 

In accordance with the popular superstition 
of the play-table, Dalton’s luck was an over- 
match for all the skill of more accomplished 
gamblers; knowing nothing whatever of the 
game, only aware when he had won or lost, by 
seeing that his stake had doubled or disappear- 
ed, he was an immense winner. Night after 
night the same fortune attended him, and so un- 
erringly seemed all his calculations made, that 
the very caprices of his play looked like well- 
studied and deep combinations. If many of the 
bystanders were disposed to this opinion, the 
“ bankers” thought otherwise ; they knew that 
in the end, the hour of retribution must come, 
and, through all their losses, not only observed 
every mark of courteous deference toward him, 
but by many a bland smile, and many a polito 
gesture, seemed to intimate the pleasure they 
felt in his good-fortune. This was all that was 
wanting to fill up the measure of Dalton’s de- 
light. 

“There isn’t a bit of envy or bad feeling 
about them chaps,” he would often say ; whe- 
ther I carry away forty naps or four hundred of 
a night, they’re just as civil. Faix ! he knew 
many a born gentleman might take a lesson 
from them.” 

So long as he continued to win, Dalton felt 
comparatively little interest in play, beyond the 
notice his presence and his large stakes were 
sure to excite. As a game, it possessed no 
hold upon him; and when he had changed his 
heaps of glittering gold for notes, he arose to 


275 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


feavc the table, and to forget all that had oc- 
curred there, as matters of no possible interest 
to remember. 

Such was no longer the case when fortune 
turned ! Then, and for the first time, the gam- 
bler’s passion awoke in his heart, and the sting 
ot defeat sent its pangs through him. The pry- 
ing, searching looks of the bystanders, too, 
were a dreadful ordeal ; for all were curious to 
see how he bore his losses, and Dalton was no 
accomplished gamester who could lose with all 
the impassive gravity of seeming indifference. 
Still less was he gifted with that philosophy of 
the play-table, that teaches a timely retreat be- 
fore adverse fortune ; he knew nothing of those 
sage maxims by which the regular gambler 
controls his temper and regulates his conduct; 
nor had he learned the art by which good and 
sterling qualities, the gifts of noble natures, can 
be brought into the service of a low and de- 
garding vice! Dalton, it must be owned, was 
what is called “a bad loser” — that is, he lost 
his temper with his money ; and the more 
steadily luck seemed against him, the more 
determinedly did he “ back his fortune.” Now 
doubling, now trebling his stake, he lost consid- 
erable sums, till at last, as the hand of the clock 
stood within a few minutes of the closing hour, 
he emptied the remainder of his bag upon the 
table, and, without counting, set it all upon a 
card. 

“Rouge perd et couleur ?” cried the banker, 
and raked in the glittering heap, and, amid a 
murmur of half-compassionate astonishment, Pe- 
ter arose from the table. Mrs. Ricketts and 
her suite were all in the ball-room, but Dalton 
only remembered them when he had gained the 
open air. The terrible shock of his reverse had 
overwhelmed all his faculties, and almost stun- 
ned him to unconsciousness. At last, he be- 
thought him of his guests; but it was some 
time before he could summon sufficient compos- 
ure of look to go in search of them. He had 
been so accustomed — to use his own phrase — 
“ to ride the winner,” that he didn’t know how 
to face the company as a beaten man. He 
thought of all the glances of impertinent pity 
his presence would call forth, and imagined the 
buzz of remark and comment every line of his 
features would give rise to. Poor Peter ! — little 
knew he that such signs of sympathy are never 
given to the very saddest of misfortunes, and 
that, in such a society, no one wastes a thought 
upon his neighbor’s reverses, except when they 
serve as a guide to himself. 

He did, indeed, overhear from time to time 
little broken sentences like these : “ The old 
fellow with the white mustache has had a 
squeeze ‘ to-night.’ ” “ He caught it heavy 

and thick.” “ Must have lost close on a thou- 
sand Naps.” “ Bank walked into him ;” and so 
on — comments as free from any tone of sympathy 
as the proudest heart could possibly have asked 
for. But even these were easier to bear than 
the little playful cajoleries of Mrs. Ricketts on 
his supposed successes. 


Knowing him to be a frequent winner, and 
hearing from Scroope the large sums he occa- 
sionally carried away, she invariably accosted 
him wkh some little jesting rebuke on his 
“dreadful luck” — that “ wicked good-fortune” 
— that would follow him in every thing and 
every where. 

Purvis had been a close spectator of all that 
went on, this unlucky evening, and was actually 
occupied with his pencil in calculating the losses 
when Peter entered the room. 

“ He had above eighteep or twenty bank 
notes of a th — thousand francs,” cried he, “when 
he be-r-be — began the evening. They are all 
gone now ! He played at least a dozen ‘ rou- 
leaux’ of fifty naps ; and as to the bag, I can 
m — m — make no guess how m — m — much it 
held.” ' • 

“I’ll tell you then, sir,” said Peter, good- 
humoredly, as he just overheard the last remark. 
“The bag held three hundred and eighty napo- 
leons ; and as ycu’re pretty correct in the other 
items, you’ll not be far from the mark by add- 
ing about fifty or sixty Naps for little bets here 
and there.” 

“What coolness — what stoical indifference,” 
whispered Mrs. Ricketts to Martha, but loud 
enough for Dalton to hear. “ That is so per- 
fectly Irish ; they can be as impetuous as the 
Italian, and possess all the self-restraint and im- 
passive bearing of the Indian warrior.” 

“ But w — w — why did you go on, when luck 
was a — a — against you?” 

“ Who told me it was against me, till I lost 
all my money?” cried Dalton. “If the first 
reverse was to make a man feel beat, it would 
be a very cowardly world, Mr. Purvis.” 

“Intensely Irish!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts. 

“ Well, maybe it is,” broke in Peter, who 
was not in a mood to accept any thing in a 
complimentary sense. “ Irish it may be ; and 
as you remarked a minute ago, we’re little bet- 
ter than savages — ” 

“Oh, Mr. Dalton — dear Mr. Dalton.” 

“No matter; I’m not angry, ma’am. The 
newspaper says as bad — ay, worse, every day 
of the week. But what I’m observing is, that 
the man that could teach me how to keep my 
money, could never have taught me how to win 
it. You know the old proverb about the ‘ faint 
heart,’ Mr. Purvis?” 

“ Yes ; but I — I — I don’t want a f — f — fair 
lady !” 

“ Faix ! I believe you’re right there, my lit- 
tle chap,” said Peter, laughing heartily, and at 
once recovering all his wonted good-humor at 
the sound of his own mellow-toned mirth ; and 
in this pleasant mood he gave an arm to each 
of his fair companions, and led them into the 
supper-room. There was an ostentatious desire 
for display in the order Dalton gave that even- 
ing to the waiter. It seemed as if he wished 
to appear perfectly indifferent about his losses. 
The table was covered with a costly profusion 
that attracted general notice. Wines of the 
rarest and most precious vintages stood on the 


276 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


sideboard. Dalton did the honors with even 
more than his accustomed gayety. There was 
a stimulant in that place at the head of the 
table — there was some magical influence in the 
duty of Host that never failed with him. The 
sense of sway and power that ambitious minds 
feel in high and pre-eminent stations were all 
his, as he sat at the top of his board ; and it 
must be owned, that with many faults of man- 
ner, and many short-comings on the score of 
taste, yet Peter did the honors of his table well 
and gracefully. 

Certain is it Mrs. Ricketts and her friends 
thought so. Zoe was in perfect ecstasies at 
the readiness of his repartees, and the endless 
variety of his anecdotes. He reminded her at 
once of Sheridan and “ poor dear Mirabeau,” 
and various other “beaux esprits” she used to 
live with. Martha listened to him with sincere 
pleasure. Purvis grew’ very tipsy in the process 
of his admiration, and the old general, suddenly 
brought back to life and memory, under the in- 
fluence of champagne, thought him so like Jack 
Trevor, of the Engineers, that he blubbered out, 
“ I think I’m listening to Jack. It’s poor Tre- 
vor over again !” 

Was it any wonder if in such intoxications 
Peter forgot all his late reverses, nor ever re- 
membered them till he had wished his company 
good-night, and found himself alone in his own 
chamber. Pecuniary difficulties w’ere no new 
thing to Dalton, and it would not have interfered 
with his pleasant dreams that night had the 
question been one of those ordinary demands 
■which he well knew how to resist or evade by 
many a legal sleight and many an illegal arti- 
fice, but here w r as a debt of honor ; he had given 
his name, three or four times during the evening, 
for large sums, lost on the very instant they 
were borrowed ! These must be repaid on the 
next day ; bi]t how’, he knew not. How he 
“stood” in Abel Kraus’s books he had not the 
remotest idea. It might be with a balance, or 
it might be with a deficit. All he really knew 
was, that he had latterly drawm largely, and 
spent freely ; and, as Abel alw’ays smiled and 
seemed satisfied, Peter concluded that his affairs 
needed no surer nor safer evidences of prosper- 
ity. To have examined ledger's and day-books 
w’ith such palpable proofs of solvency, would 
have been, in his eyes, an act of as great ab- 
surdity as that of a man w T ho w r ould not believe 
in the sunshine till he had first consulted the 
thermometer ! 

“ I must see Abel early to-morrow. Abel 
will set it all right,” w T ere the conclusions to 
which he alw’ays came back ; and if not very 
clearly evident how, why, or by what means, 
still he was quite satisfied that honest Kraus 
would extricate him from every difficulty. “ The 
Devil go with it for Black and Red,” said he, as 
he lay dow r n in his bed. “ I’d have plenty of 
cash in my pocket W every thing this night, if 
it wasn’t for that same table ; and an ugly game 
it is as ever a man played. Shuffle and cut , 
faites your ‘jeu; : thirty-four — thirty-three; red 


wins — black loses ; there’s the wfflole of it ; sor- 
row T more on’t, except the sad heart that comes 
afterward !” these last w r ords he uttered with a 
deep sigh, and then turned his face to the pillow’. 

He passed a restless, feverish night; the 
sleep being more harassing than even his waking 
moments, disturbed as it was by thoughts of all 
he had lately gone through. All the tremen- 
dous excitement of the play-table, heightened by 
the effect of wine, made up a wild, chaotic con- 
fusion in his brain, that was almost madness. 
He awoke repeatedly, too, eager for daylight, 
and the time to call upon honest Abel. At 
these times he would pace his room up and 
dowm, framing the speeches by which he meant 
to open the interview. Kraus was familiar with 
his usual “ pleas.” With Ireland and her stere- 
otyped distresses he w T as thoroughly conversant. 
Famine, fever, potato-rot, poor-rates, emigra- 
tion, and eviction, w 7 ere themes he could have 
almost discussed himself: but all he recognized 

/ T x. ® 

in them w r as an urgent demand for money, and 
an occasion for driving the very hardest of bar- 
gains. The Russian remittances had been less 
regular of late ; so at least Abel averred, for Dal- 
ton neither knew, nor tried to know, any details. 
The dates w’ere frequently inconvenient, and the 
places of payment oftentimes remote. Still, 
Abel w r as civil — nay, almost cordial ; and what 
can any man ask for more than a smile from 
his banker J 

Dalton w T as quite at ease on one point, Kraus 
was sure to know nothing of his late losses at 
play; in fact, out of his little den wfflerein he 
sat he seemed to be aw T are of nothing in the 
whole w’ide w’orld. A small “slip,” which 
arrived each morning from Frankfort, told him 
the current exchanges of the day. The faces 
of his clients revealed all the rest. But Dalton 
w’as greatly deceived on this point. There w^as 
not the slightest incident of Baden w’ith which 
he was not familiar, nor any occurrence in its 
life of dissipation on w’hich he w T as uninformed. 
His knowledge w’as not the offspring of any 
taste for scandal, or any liking for the secret 
gossiping of society. No; his w’as a purely 
practical and professional information. The 
archduke, wfflo had lost so heavily at “roulette,” 
would need a loan on the morrow’ ; the count, 
w’ho was about to elope w’ith the marchioness, 
must have bills on Paris; tbe colonel, wffio had 
shot the baron in a duel, couldn’t escape over 
the frontier without money. In a word, every 
vice and iniquity seemed the tributaries of his 
trade ; and whether to consummate their wick- 
edness, or escape its penalty, men must first 
come to Abel Kraus ! 

To see him crouching behind his little desk, 
poring over the scattered fragments of dirty 
papers, w’hich w’ere his only books, you would 
never have suspected that he had a thought 
above the mystic calculations before him. 
Watch him more narrowly, however, and- you 
w’ill perceive that not a figure can cross the 
street and approach his door without meetiim a 
shrew’d, quick glance from those dark eyes; 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


while a faint muttering sound betrays his de- 
tection of the visitor’s object. 

Long, then, before Dalton swaggered up to 
the money-changer’s den, Abel knew every cir- 
cumstance of the previous night, and had actu- 
ally before him on his desk a correct account of 
all the sums he had lost at play. Abel was not 
unprepared for such tidings. Dalton was pre- 
cisely the man to rush headlong into play the 
moment fortune turned with him, and the pang 
ol defeat was added to the bitterness of a loss, 
Abel only wondered that the reverse had not 
come earlier : and so he mumbled below his 
breath, as, with his hat set jauntily on one side, 
and his hands stuck carelessly beneath his coat- 
tails, Dalton came forward. 

Peter had so far “ got up” his air of easy in- 
difference as to whistle a tune, but, somehow, as 
he dreu r nearer to the door, the sounds waxed 
fainter and fainter, and, before he had crossed 
the threshold, had sunk away into the cadence 
of a heavy sigh. Abel never looked up as the 
other Entered, but, affecting the deepest pre- 
occupation, went on with his figures. 

“ Morrow, Abel,” said Dalton, as he threw 
himself into a chair, and, removing his hat, be- 
gan to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief. 
“ This is a murdering hot day. It’s not ten 
yet, and the sun’s roasting !” 

“Fine weather for de harvest, Herr von 
Dalton, but a little rain do no harm.” 

“Faix, I think not — neither to man nor 
beast!” 

Abel grinned at the brawny throat and mas- 
sive proportions that seemed so unequal to sus- 
tain the heat, but said nothing. 

“ How’s the exchange, Abel ?” said Peter — 
“ how’s the exchange ?” 

Now, in justice to our worthy friend Dalton, 
we must own that he put this question without 
having the very remotest idea of its meaning. 
An inscription from the tomb of the Pharaohs 
would have been to the full as intelligible to him 
as an extract from the 44 City Article.” He 
asked it as certain “charming women” inquire 
about the compass on board ship— a something, 
in fact, suitable to the time and place, and pro- 
per to be done on like occasions. 

“ De exchange is very uncertain ; de market 
is up and down,” said Abel, dryly. 

“That's bad,” said Dalton, gravely — “that’s 
very bad !” 

“ De Mongolian loan is de reason,” rejoined 

Abel. 

Dalton gave a grunt, that might mean assent 
or displeasure with that view of the case, but 
did not trust himself with more. ^ 

“ Dey will not take de scrip at eighty-two, 
and I tink dey are right.” 

“ Faix, I don’t doubt but they are !” chimed 
in Peter. 

“ Dey are right, if all be true we hear of de 
security. It is de mines of de State dat are 
hypotheked — how you call it — what you say, 
4 hypotheked ?’ ” 

Dalton was completely puzzled now, and could 


277 

only scratch his ear — his invariable symptom of 
utter discomfiture. 

“ ’Tis no matter,” cried Abel, with a grating, 
harsh laugh. “ Dey promise, and no pay ; and 
dat is very bad — ha ! ha ! ha !” 

Now Dalton joined in the laugh, but with as 
ill a grace as need be. 

“ Dey promise, and dey no pay, Herr von 
Dalton !” repeated the Jew, with another laugh, 
as though he could not tear himself away from 
so excellent a jest. 44 Dey borrow, dat dey 
may make explorations — how you call dem ? — 
wit oder men’s money. If dey do win, well ! if 
dey lose — bah ! dey are bankrupt !” 

Now all these allusions were of the most pro- 
voking character to poor Dalton, who could not 
help feeling a very different sympathy for the 
Mongolians from that expressed by Abel Kraus. 
“ Who knows what difficulties they’re in — may 
be they’d pay if they could,” muttered he, as 
he slapped his boot with his cane, and fell into a 
musing fit. 

“ Dey shall not have one kreutzer of my 
moneys ; I can tell dem dat !” said Kraus, as he 
buttoned up the keys of his strong box, as though 
suiting the action to his words. 

“ Don’t put up the keys so soon, Abel,” said 
Daltbn, with an effort at a laugh. “ I want to 
see the inside of that little iron trunk there.” 

“ You no want money, Herr von Dalton ?” ex- 
claimed the other in amazement. “ You no want 
money ! You draw eight hundred florin on Tues- 
day ; you have four hundred on Wednesday even- 
ing, and seven rouleaux of Napoleons ; on Satur- 
day again I send you twenty thousand franc !” 

“All true — every word of it,” said Dalton; 
“but there’s no use telling a hungry man about 
the elegant dinner he ate last week! The short 
of the matter is, I want cash now.” 

Kraus appeared to reflect for a few minutes, 
and then said, “ If a leetle sum will do — ” 

“ Faix ! it will not. I want five hundred 
Naps, at the very least.” 

Kraus threw down his pen, and stared at him 
without speaking.” ' 

“ One would think from your face, Abel, that 
I was asking for a loan of the National Debt. I 
said five hundred Naps !” 

Abel shook his head mournfully, and merely 
muttered, “Ja! ja !” to himself. “We will 
look over de account, Herr von Dalton,” said he 
at last ; “ perhaps I am wrong, I no say, I am 
sure ; but I tink — dat is, I believe — you over- 
draw very much your credit.” 

“ Well, supposing I did ; is it the first time?” 
said Dalton, angrily. “ An’t I as good a man 
now as I was before ?” 

“ You are a very goot man, I know well ; a 
very goot and a very pleasant man; but you 
know de old German proverb, 4 Das Gut ist 
nicht Gelt.” 

“I never heard it till now,” muttered Peter, 
sulkily ; “ but if a robber in this country put a 
pistol to your head, he’d be sure to have a prov- 
erb to justify him ! But to come to the point : 
can I have the money ?” 


278 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ I fear very mush — No !” was the dry re- 
sponse. 

“ No — is it,” cried Dalton, starting up from 
his seat; “did you say no?” 

Kraus nodded twice, slowly and deliberately. 

“ Then bad luck to the rap ever you’ll see 
more of my money,” cried Peter passionately. 
“You old Jewish thief, I ought to have known 
you long ago ; fifty, sixty, seventy per cent. I 
was paying for the use of my own cash, and 
every bill I gave as good as the Bank paper ! 
Arn’t ybu ashamed of yourself, tell me that — 
arn’t you downright ashamed of yourself?” 

“I tink not ; I have no occasions for shame,” 
said the other, calmly. 

“ Faix I believe you there !” retorted Dalton. 
“ Your line of life doesn’t offer many opportuni- 
ties of blushing. But if I can’t bring you to 
know’ shame, may be I can teach you to feel sor- 
row. Our dealing is ended from this day out. 
Peter Dalton doesn’t know you more ! He never 
saw you ! he never heard of your name ! D’ye 
mind me now ? None of your boasting among 
the English here that you have Mr. Dalton’s 
business. If I hear of your saying it, it’s not a 
contradiction will satisfy me. Understand me 
w T ell — it’s not to leave a mark of friendship that 
I’ll come in here again !” 

Thd fierce tone in which Dalton said these 
words, and the gesture he made with a tremen- 
dous walking stick, were certainly well calcu- 
lated to excite Abel’s terrors, who, opening a 
little movable pane of the window, looked out 
into the street, to assure himself of succor in 
case of need. 

“ What’s the use of family', rank, or fortune,” 
cried Dalton, indignantly, as he paced up and 
dow r n the little shop, in a perfect frenzy of pas- 
sion, “if a little dirty Jew, with a face like a 
rat-‘tarrier,’ can insult you! My uncle is one 
of the first men in Austria, and my daughter’s 
a princess ; and there’s a creature, you wouldn’t 
touch with the tongs, has the impudence to — 
to — to — ” Evidently the precise offense did 
not at once occur to Dalton’s memory, for, after 
several efforts to round off his phrase — “ to out- 
rage me — to outrage me !” he cried, w T ith the 
satisfaction of one who had found a missing ob- 
ject. 

Meanwhile Abel, who had gradually resumed 
his courage, w r as busily engaged in some deep 
and intricate calculations, frequently referring 
to a number of ill-scrawded scraps of paper on 
a file before him, not heeding, if he heard, the 
storm around him. 

“ Dere, saar,” said he at length, as he push- 
ed a slip of paper toward Dalton — “dere, saar; 
our affairs is closed, as you say. Dere is your 
debit — eighteen hundred and seventy-three flor- 
ins, ‘ convenzion money.’ Dere may be leetle 
charges to be added for commissions and oder 
tings ; but dat is the chief sum which you pay, 
now.” 

There was a sharp emphasis on the last mon- 
osyllable that made Dalton start. 

“I’ll look over it ; I’ll compare it with my 


books at home,” said he, haughtily, as he stuff- 
ed the slip of paper into his waistcoat-pocket. 

“ Den, you no pay to-day ?” asked Abel. 

“ Nor to-morrow, nor the day after, nor, may 
be, a while longer,” said Dalton. w T ith a com- 
posure he well knew how to feel in like circum- 
stances. 

“ Very well, den ; I will have securities. I 
will have bail for my money’s before tree o’clock 
dis day. Dere is the sommation before de Tri- 
bunal, Herr von Dalton.” And he handed a 
printed document, stamped with the official seal 
of a law court, across the table. “ You will 
see,” added the Jew, with a malicious grin, 
“ dat I was not unprepared for all dis. Abel 
Kraus is only an old Jew, but he no let de Gen- 
tile cheat him !” 

Dalton was stunned by the suddenness of this 
attack. The coolly-planned game of the other 
so overmatched all the passionate outbreak of 
his own temper, that he felt himself mastered 
at once by his wily antagonist. 

“ To the devil I fling your summons !” cried 
he, savagely. “I can’t even read it.” 

“ Your avocat will explain it all. He will 
tell you dat if y r ou no pay de moneys herein 
charged, no give a goot and sufficient surety 
dereof before de Civils Gerieht, dis day, dat you 
will be consign to de prison of de Staat at Caris- 
ruhe, dere, to remain your ‘ Leben lang,’ if so be 
you never pay.” - 

“ Arrest me for debt the day it’s demanded !” 
cried Dalton, whose notions of the law’s delay 
were not a little shocked by such peremptory 
proceedings. 

“ It is in Criminal as well as in Civil Gerieht 
to draw on a banker beyond your moneys, and 
no pay, on demand.” 

“ There’s justice for you !” cried Dalton, pas- 
sionately. “ Highway robbery, housebreaking, 
is decenter. There’s some courage, at least, in 
them! But I wouldn’t believe you if you were 
on your oath. There isn’t such a law in Eu 
rope, nor in the East ‘ Ingies !’ ” 

Abel grinned, but never uttered a word. 

“ So, any ould thief} then, can trump up a 
charge against a man — can send him off to jail 
— before he can look round him !”. 

“ If he do make false charge he can be con 
demn to de galleys,” was the calm reply. 

“ And what’s the use of that ?” cried Dalton, 
in a transport of rage, “ Isn’t the galleys as 
good a life as sitting there ? Isn’t it as manly 
a thing to strain at an oar as to sweat a guinea ?” 

“I am a burgher of the Grand Duchy,” said 
Abel, boldly ; “ and if you defame me, it shall 
be before witnesses !” And as he spoke ho 
threw wide the window, so that the passers-by 
might hear what took place. 

Dalton’s face became purple ; the veins in his 
forehead swelled like a thick cordage, and he 
seemed almost bursting with suppressed passion. 
For an instant it was even doubtful if he could 
master his struggling wrath. At last he grasp- 
ed the heavy chair he had been sitting on, and, 
dashing it down on the ground, broke it into 


27? 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


atoms ; and then, with an execration in Irish, the 
very sound of which rang like a curse, he strode 
out of the shop, and hastened down the street. 

Many a group of merry children, many a morn- 
ing excursionist returning from his donkey-ride, 
remarked the large old man, who, muttering and 
gesticulating as he went, strode along the cause- 
way, not heeding nor noticing those around him. 
Others made way for him as for one it were not 
safe to obstruct, and none ventured a word as he 
passed by. On he went, careless of the burning 
heat and the hot rays of the sun — against which 
already many a “jalousie” was closed, and many 
an awning spread — up the main street of the 
town, across the “ Platz.” and then took his way 
up one of the steep and narrow lanes which lead 
toward the upper town. To see him, nothing 
could look more purpose-like than his pace and 
the manner of his going; and yet he knew no- 
thing of where he walked nor whither the path 
led him. A kind of instinct directed his steps 
into an old and oft-followed track, but his 
thoughts were bent on- other objects. He neither 
saw the half-terrified glances that were turned 
on him, nor marked how they who were wash- 
ing at the fountain ceased their work, as he pass- 
ed, to stare at him. 

At last he reached the upper town ; emerging 
from which, by a steep flight of narrow stone 
steps, he gained a little terraced spot of ground, 
crossed by two rows of linden trees, under whose 
shade he had often sat of an evening to watch the 
sunset over the plain. He did not halt here, 
but passing across the grassy sward, made for a 
small low house which stood at the angle of the 
terrace. The shutters of the shop-window were 
closed, but a low half-door permitted a view of 
the interior; leaning over which, Dalton remained 
for several minutes, as if lost in deep reverie. 

The silent loneliness of the little shop at first 
appeared to engross all his attention, but after 
a while other thoughts came slowly flitting 
through his muddy faculties, and with a deep- 
drawn sigh he said, 

“ Dear me ! but I thought we were living 
here still 1 It’s droll enough how one can for- 
get himself! Hans, Hans Roeckle, my man !” 
cried he, beating with his stick against the doors 
as he called out. “ Hanserl ! Hans, I say ! 
Well, it’s a fine way to keep a shop ! How 
does the creature know but I’m a lady that would 
buy half the gimcracks in the place, and he’s not 
to be found ! That’s what makes these devils 
so poor — they never mind their business. ’Tis 
nothing but fun and diversion they think of the 
whole day long. There’s no teaching them 
that there’s nothing like ‘ Indhustry !’ What 
makes us the finest people under the sun ? 
Work — nothing but work ! I’m sure I’m tired 
telling him so ! Hans, are you asleep, Hans 
Roeckle ?” No answer followed this summons, 
and now Dalton, after some vain efforts to unbolt 
the door, strode over it into the shop. “ Faix ! 
I don’t wonder that you hadn’t a lively busi- 
ness,” said he, as he looked around at the half- 
stocked shelves, over which dust and cobwebs 


were spread like a vail. “ Sorrow a thing I 
don’t know as well as I do my gaiters ! There’s 
the same soldiers, and that’s the woocl-cutter with 
the matches on his back, and there’s the little 
cart Frank mended for him ! Poor Frank, where 
is he now, I wonder?” Dalton sighed heavily 
as he continued to run his eye over the various 
articles, all familiar to him long ago. “ What’s 
become of Hans,” cried he at last, aloud; “ if it 
wasn’t an honest place he wouldn’t have a stick 
left ! To go away and leave every thing at 
sixes and sevens — well, well, it’s wonderful !” 

Dalton ascended the stairs — every step of 
which was well known to him — to the upper 
story, where he used to live. The door was un- 
fastened, and the rooms were just as he had left 
them — even to the little table at which Nelly used 
to sit beside the window. Nothing was changed ; 
a bouquet of faded flowers — the last, perhaps, 
she had ever plucked in that garden — stood in 
a glass in the window-sill ; and so like was all 
to the well-remembered past, that Dalton almost 
thought he heard her footstep on the floor. 

“ Well, it was a nice little quiet spot any 
way !” said he, as he sank into a chair, and a 
heavy tear stole slowly along his cheek. “ May- 
be it would have been well for me if I never 
left it ! With all our poverty we spent many a 
pleasant night beside that hearth, and many’s 
the happy day we passed in that wood there. 
To be sure, we were all together then ! that 
makes a difference ! instead of one here, another 
there, God knows when to meet, if ever ! 

“ I used to fret many a time about our being 
so poor, but I was wrong after all, for we divided 
our troubles among us, and that left a small 
share for each ; but there’s Nelly, now, pining 
away — I don’t know for what — but I see it plain 
enough ; and here am I myself with a heavy 
heart this day ; and sure, who can tell if Kate, 
great as she is, hasn’t her sorrows ; and poor 
Frank, ’tis many a hard thing, perhaps, he has 
to bear. I believe in reality we were better 
then !” 

He arose, and walked about the room ; now- 
stopping before each well-remembered object ; 
now shaking his head in mournful acquiescence 
with some unspoken regret; he went in turn 
through each chamber, and then, passing from 
the room that had been Nelly’s, he descended a 
little zigzag, rickety stair, by which Hans had 
contrived to avoid injuring the gnarled branches 
of a fig-tree that grew beneath. Dalton now 
found himself in the garden ; but how unlike 
what it had been ! Once, the perfection of 
blooming richness and taste — the beds without 
a weed, the gravel trimly raked and shining, 
bright channels of limpid water running amid 
the flowers, and beautiful birds of gay plumage 
caged beneath the shady shrubs — now, all was 
overrun with rank grass and tall weeds ; the 
fountains were dried up, the flowers trodden 
down — even the stately yew hedge, the massivt, 
growth of a century, was broken by the depre- 
dations of the mountain cattle. All was waste* 
neglect, and desolation. 


280 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ I’d not know the place, it is not like itself,” j 
muttered Dalton, sorrowfully. “1 never saw 
the like of this before. There’s the elegant fine 
plants dying for want of care ! and the rose- 
trees rotting just for want of a little water ! To 
think of how he labored late and early here, and 
to see it now ! He used to call them carnations 
his children : there was one Agnes, and there 
was another Undine — indeed, I believe that was 
a lily ; and I think there was a Nelly, too ; droll 
enough to make out they were Christians ! but 
sure, they did as well ; and he watched after 
them as close ! and ay, and stranger than all, 
he’d sit and talk to them for hours. It’s a quare 
world altogether ; but maybe it’s our own fault 
that it’s not better' and perhaps we ought to 
give in more to each other’s notions, and not 
sneer at whims and fancies when they don' t please 
ourselves.” 

It was while thus ruminating. Dalton entered 
a little arbor, whose trellised walls and roof had 
been one of the triumphs of HaUserl’s skill. 
Ruin, however, had now fallen on it, and the 
drooping branches and straggling te'ndrils hung 
mournfully down on all sides, covering the stone 
table, and even the floor, with their vegetation. 
As Dalton stood, sad and sorrow-struck at this 
desolation, he perceived the figure of Hans him- 
self, as, half-hidden by the leaves, he sat in his 
accustomed seat. His head was uncovered, but 
his hair fell in great masses on either side, and 
with his long beard, now neglected and un- 
trimmed, gave him an unusually wild and savage 
look. A book lay open on his knees, but his 
hands were crossed over it, and his eyes were 
upturned as if in reverie. 

Dalton felt half-ashamed at accosting him ; 
there was something ungracious in the way he 
had quitted the poor dwarf’s dwelling ; there 
had been a degree of estrangement for weeks 
before between them, and altogether he knew 
that he had ill-requited all the unselfish kindness 
of the little loy-seller; so that he would gladly 
have retired without being noticed, when Hans 
suddenly turned, and saw him. 

It was almost with a cry of surprise Hans 
called out his name. 

“ This is kind of you, Herr von Dalton. Is 
the Friiulein — ” He stopped and looked eager- 
ly around. 

“ No, Hanserl,” said Dalton, answering to the 
half-expressed question, “ Nelly isn’t with me ; 

I came up alone. Indeed, to tell the truth, I 
found myself here without well knowing why or 
how. Old habit, I suppose, led me, for I was 
thinking of something else.” 

“ They were kind thoughts that guided your 
steps,” said the dwarf, in accents of deep grati- 
tude, “for I have been lonely of late.” 

“ Wh} r don’t you come down and see us, Han- 
serl? It’s not so far o(T, and you know Nelly 
is always glad to see you.” 

“ It is true,” said the dwarf, mournfully. 

“ You werq always a good friend to us* Han- 
serl,” said Dalton, taking the other’s hand and 
pressing it cordially ; “and faix, as the world 


goes,” added he, sighing, “ there's many a thing 
easier found than a friend.” 

“The rich can have all — even friendship,” 
muttered Hans, lowly. 

“ I don’t know that, Hans ; I’m not so sure 
you’re right there.” 

“ They buy it,” said the dwarf, with a fierce 
energy, “ as they can buy every thing — the pearl 
for which the diver hazards life — the gem that 
the polisher has grown blind over — the fur for 
which the hunter has shed his heart’s blood. 
And yet when they’ve got them they have not 
got content.” 

“Ay, that’s true,” sighed Dalton. “I sup- 
pose nobody is satisfied in this world.” 

“ But they can be if they will but look up- 
ward,” cried Hans, enthusiastically. “If they 
will learn to think humbly of themselves, and on 
how slight a claim they possess all the blessings 
of their lot — if they will but bethink them that 
the sun and the flowers, the ever-rolling sea, 
and the leafy forest, are all their inheritance — 
that for them, as for all, the organ peals through 
the dim-vaulted aisle with promises of eternal 
happiness; and lastly, that, with all the wild 
contentions of men’s passions, there is ever gush- 
ing up. in the human heart, a well of kind and 
affectionate thoughts — like those springs we read 
of, of pure water amid the salt ocean, and which, 
taken at the source, are sweet and good to drink 
from. Men are not so bad by nature ; it is the 
prizes for which they struggle; the goals they 
strive for, corrupt them ! Make of this fair 
earth a gambling-table, and yoti will have all 
the base passions of the gamester around it.” 

“ Bad luck to it for gambling,” said Dalton, 
whose intelligence was just able to grasp at the 
illustration ; “ I wish I’d never seen a card ; and 
that reminds me, Hans, that maybe you’d give 
me a bit of advice. There was a run against 
me last night in that thieving place. The 1 red 
came up fom'teen times, and I backing against 
it every time, sometimes ten, sometimes twenty 
— ay, faix, as high as fifty ‘Naps.’ You may 
think what a squeeze I got ! And when 1 went 
to ould Kraus this morning, this is what he sticks 
in my hand instead of a roll of bank-notes.” 
With these words Dalton presented to Hans the 
printed srtmmons of the “Tribunal.” 

“A Gerichts-Ruf !” ,said Hans, with a voice 
of deep teverence, for he entertained a mosjt 
German terror for the law and its authority. 
“ This is a serious affair.” 

“I suppose it is,” sighed Dalton; “but .1 
hope we’re in a Christian country, where the 
law is open ?” ■ 

Hans nodded, and Peter went on. 

“ What I mean is, that nothing can be done 
in a hurry — that when we have a man on our 
side he can oppose and obstruct, and give delays, 
picking a hole here and finding a flaw there ; 
asking for vouchers for this and proofs for that, 
and then waiting for witnesses that never come, 
and looking for papers that never existed ; malt- 
ing Chancery of it, Hans, my boy — making 
Chancery of it.” 


281 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Not here — not with us !” said Hans, grave- 
ly. “ You must answer to this charge to-day, 
and belore four o’clock, too, or to-morrow there 
will be a writ of ‘ contumacy’ against you. You 
haven’t got the money?” 

“ Of course I haven’t, nor a ten-pound note 
toward it.” 

,c Then you must provide security.” 

“’Tis easy said, my little man, but it is not 
so easy dealing with human beings as with the 
little wooden figures in your shop beyond.” 

“There must be ‘good and substantial bail,’ 
as the summons declares : such as will satisfy 
the court,” said Hans, who seemed at once to 
have become a man of acute worldly perception 
at the sight of this printed document. 

“ Security — bail !” exclaimed Dalton. “You 
might as well ask Robinson Crusoe who’d be 
godfather to his child on the Desert Island. 
There’s not a man, woman, or child in the place 
would give me a meal’s meat. There’s not a 
house I could shelter my head in, for one night ; 
and see now,” cried he, carried away by an im- 
pulse of passionate excitement, “ it isn’t by way 
of disparagement I say it to this little town, for 
the world all over is the same ; the more you 
give the less you get ! Treat them with cham- 
pagne and venison; send money to this one, 
make presents to that, and the day luck turns 
with you, the best word they’ll have for you is, 
‘ He was a wasteful, careless devil — couldn’t 
keep it when he had it — lived always above his 
means — all hand and mouth.’ It’s a kind friend 
that will vouchsafe as much as ‘Poor fellow — 
I’m sorry for him !’ ” / 

“ And to what end is wealth,” cried Hans, 
boldly, “ if it but conduce to this ? Are the 
friends well chosen who can behave thus ? Are 
the hospitalities well bestowed that meet such 
return? or is it not rather selfishness is paid 
back in the same base coin that it uttered ?” 
i “ For the matter of that,” said Dalton, an- 
grily, “ I never found that vulgar people was a 
bit more grateful than their betters : nor low- 
manners any warranty for high principles; and 
when one is to be shipwrecked, it’s better to go 
down in a ‘ seventy-four’ than be drowned out 
of a punt, in a mill-pond.” 

“It’s past noon akeady,” said Hans, pointing 
to the sun-dial on his house. “ There’s little 
time to be lost.” , v V 

“ And as little to be gained,” muttered Dal- 
ton. moodily, as he strolled out into the garden. 

“Let me have this paper,” said Hans; “I 
will see the Herr Kraus myself, and try if some- 
thing can not be done. With time, I suppose, 
you could meet this claim?” 

“ To be sure I could, wnen my remittances 
arrive — when my installments are paid up — 
when my rents come in — when — ” He was 
about to add, “when luck changes,” but he 
stopped himself just in time. 

“ There need be no difficulty if you can be 
certain,” said Hans, slowly. 

“ Certain ! — and of what is a man certain in 


this life ?” said Dalton, in his tone of moralizing. 
“ Wasn’t I certain of the Corrigoneal estate ? 
Wasn’t I certain of Miles Dalton’s property in 
the funds? Wasn’t I certain that if the Par- 
liament wasn’t taken away from us, that I’d 
have my own price for the Borough of Knock- 
nascanelera ? — and sorrow one of the three ever 
came to me. Ay, no later than last night, 
wasn’t I certain that Black would come up — ” 

“ When I said certain,” broke in Hans, “ I 
meant so far as human foresight could pledge 
itself ; but I did not speak of the chances of the 
play-table. If your expectations of payment 
rest on these, do not talk of them as certainties.” 

“ What’s my estates for ? Where’s my land- 
ed property?” cried Dalton, indignantly. “To 
hear you talk, one would think I was a Cheva- 
lier of Industhry, as they call them.” 

“ I ask your pardon, Herr,” said Hans humbly. 
“ It is in no spirit of idle curiosity that I speak ; 
less still, with any wish to offend you. I will 
now see what i$ best to do. You may leave all 
in my hands, and by four o’clock, or five at 
farthest, you shall hear from me.” 

“ That’s sensible — that’s friendly,” cried Dal- 
ton, shaking the other’s hand warmly, and really 
feeling the most sincere gratitude for the kind- 
ness. 

If there was any act of friendship he particu 
larly prized, it was the intervention that should 
relieve him of the anxiety and trouble of a diffi- 
cult negotiation, and leave him, thoughtless and 
careless, to stroll about, neither thinking of the 
present nor uneasy for the future. The moment 
such an office had devolved upon another, Dal- 
ton felt relieved of all sense of responsibility 
before his own conscience ; and, although the 
question at issue were his own welfare or ruin, 
he ceased to think of it as a personal matter. 
Like his countryman, who consoled himself when 
the house was in flames, by thinking, “he was 
only a lodger,” so he actually forgot his own 
share of the peril by reflecting on the other in- 
terests that were at stake. And the same theory 
that taught him to leave his soul to his priest’s 
care, and his health to his doctor’s, made him 
quite satisfied when a friend had charge of his 
honor or his fortune. 

It was as comfortable a kind of fatalism as 
need be ; and, assuredly, to have seen Peter’s 
face as he now descended the steps to the lower 
town, it would be rash to deny that he was not 
a sincere believer in his philosophy. No longer 
absent in air, and clouded in look, he had a smile 
and a pleasant word for all who passed him ; and 
now, with a jest for this one, and “a kreutzer” 
for that, he held on his way, with a tail of beg- 
gars and children after him, all attracted by that 
singular mesmerism which draws around cer- 
tain men every thing that is vagrant and idle — 
from the cripple at the crossing to the half- 
starved cur-dog without an owner. 

This gift was, indeed, his; and whatever was 
penniless, and friendless, and houseless, seemed 
to feel they had a claim on Peter Dalton. 


) 


v ' S' 


CHAPTER LIX. 


THE LAST STAKE OF ALL. 


rV' • . ’ - 

\r\t - ‘ > 

Dalton found his little household on the alert 
at his return home ; for Mrs. Ricketts had just 
received an express to inform her that her ‘‘two 
dearest friends on earth” were to arrive that 
evening in Baden, and she was busily engaged 
in arranging a little fete for their reception. All 
that poor Nelly knew of the expected guests 
was, that one w r as a distinguished soldier, and 
the other a no less illustrious diplomatist ; claims 
which, for the reader’s illumination, w r e beg to 
remark, w T ere embodied in the persons of Colonel 
Haggerstone and Mr. Foglass. Most persons 
in Mrs. Ricketts’ position would have entertained 
some scruples about introducing a reinforcement 
to the already strong garrison of the villa, and 
would have been disposed to the more humble 
but safe policy enshrined in the adage of “letting 
w r ell alone.” But she had a spirit far above such 
small ambitions, and saw that the Dalton hospi- 
talities were capable of w T hat, in parliamentary 
phrase, is called a “most extended applica- 
tion.” 

By the awe-struck air of Nelly, and the over- 
weening delight manifested by her father, Zoe 
perceived the imposing effect of great names 
upon both, and so successfully did she mystify 
the description of her two coming friends, that 
an uninterested listener might readily have set 
them down for the Duke and Prince Metternich, 
unless, indeed, that the praises she lavished on 
them would have seemed even excessive for such 
greatness. A triumphal arch was erected half- 
way up the avenue, over which, in flowery initials, 
were to be seen the letters “ B.” and “ P.” sym- 
bols to represent “Bayard” and “Puffendorf;” 
under which guise Haggerstone and the consul 
were to be represented. Strings of colored 
lamps were to be festooned along the approach, 
over which an Irish harp w r as to be exhibited 
in a transparency, with the very original inscrip- 
tion of “ Caed Mille failtha,” in Celtic letters be- 
neath. 

The banquet — the w T ord dinner w r as strictly 
proscribed lor that day — w T as to be arrayed in 
the hall, where Dalton was to preside, if possible, 
with an Irish crown upon his head, supported 
by Nelly as the Genius of Irish Music ; and Zoe 
bersell in a composite character — half empress, 


half prophetess — a something between Sappho 
and the Queen of Sheba ; Martha, for the con- 
venience of her various household cares w 7 as to 
be costumed as a Tyrolese hostess ; and Purvis, 
in a dress of flesh-colored web, w r as to represent 
Mercury, sent on purpose from above to deliver 
a message of welcome to the arriving guests. 
As for the general, there was a great doubt 
w T hether he ought to be Bellisarius or Suwar- 
roff — for being nearly as blind as the one and as 
deaf as the other — his qualifications were about 
evenly balanced. 

If not insensible to some of the absurdities of 
this notable project, Dalton forgot the ridicule 
in the pleasanter occupation of the bustle, the 
movement, and the tumult it occasioned. It 
did his heart good to see the lavish waste and 
profusion that went forward. The kitchen-table, 
as it lay spread with fruit, fish, and game, might 
have made a study for “ Schneiders;” and hon- 
est Peter’s face glowed with delight as he sur- 
veyed a scene so suggestive of convivial thoughts 
and dissipation. 

“ No doubt of it, Nelly,” said he, “ but Mo- 
ther Ricketts has grand notions ! She does the 
thing like a princess !” The praise was so fax 
well bestow T ed, that there was something royal 
in dispensing hospitality without regarding the 
cost ; while, at the same time, she never enter- 
tained the slightest sentiment of esteem for those 
in whose favor it vras to be exercised. Amono- 

O 

the very few things she feared in this world was 
Haggerstone’s “tongue,” which she hei-self 
averred was best conciliated by “ giving occu- 
pation to his teeth.” The banquet was “ got 
up,” with that object, while it also gave a favor- 
able opportunity of assuming that unbounded 
sway in Dalton’s household which should set the 
question of her supi’emacy at rest forever. 

To this end was poor Martha engaged with 
puff-paste, and jellies, and whip cream, with 
wreaths of roses and pyramids of fruit, from 
dawn till dusk. To this end was Purvis nearly 
driven out of his mind by endeavoring to get off 
by heart an address in rhyme, the very first 
line of which almost carried him off in a fit of 
coughing — the w r ord Puffendorf being found 
nearly as unmanageable to voice as it was uu- 


283 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


suited to verse. While poor Bellisarius, stripped 
of rule and compass, denied access to water- 
colors, India- ink, or charcoal, spent a most woe- 
ful day of weary expectancy. 

It was, indeed, an awful scene of trouble, 
fatigue, and exertion on every side, adding one 
more to those million instances where the prep- 
aration for the guest has no possible relation 
to the degree of esteem he is held in. For so 
is it in the world ; our best receptions are de- 
creed to those we care least for; “ our friend” 
is condemned to the family dinner, while we 
lavish our fortune on mere acquaintances. In 
these days the fatted calf would not have been 
killed to commemorate the return of the prodi- 
gal, but have been melted down into mock-tur- 
tle, to feast “ my Lord” or “ your Grace.” 

The day wore on, and as the arrangements 
drew nearer to completion, the anxieties were 
turned toward the guests themselves, who were 
to have arrived at five o’clock. It was now six, 
and yet no sign of their coming ! Fully a dozen 
times had Mrs. Ricketts called Martha from 
some household cares, by the adjuration, “ Sister 
Anne, sister Anne, seest thou nobody coming?” 
Mercury had twice ventured out on the high- 
road, from which he was driven back by a posse 
of hooting and laughing children, and Dalton 
himself paced up and down the terrace in a state 
of nervous impatience, not a little stimulated by 
hunger, and certain flying visits he paid the iced 
punch, to see if it “ was keeping cool.” 

There is, assuredly, little mesmeric relation 
between the expecting host and the lingering 
guest, or we should not witness all that we do 
of our friends’ unpunctuality in this life. What 
a want of sympathy between the feverish impa- 
tience of the one and the careless dalliance of 
the other ! Not that we intend this censure to 
apply to the case before us ; for Haggerstone 
had not the very remotest conception of the 
honors that awaited him, and jogged along his 
dusty road with no greater desire to be at the 
end of the journey than was fairly justifiable in 
one who traveled with German post-horses and 
Foglass for a companion ! . / 

Six o’clock came, and, after another hour of 
fretful anxiety, it struck seven. By this time 
beef had become carbon, and fowls were like 
specimens of lava ; the fish was reduced to the 
state of a “ puree,” while every thing meant to 
assume the flinty resistance of ice was calmly 
settling down into a fluid existence. Many an 
architectural device of poor Martha’s genius was 
doomed to the fate of her other -castles, and 
towers and minarets of skilltul shape dropped 
off one by one, like the hopes of her childhood. 
All the telegraphic announcements from the 
kitchen were of disasters, but Mrs. Ricketts re- 
ceived the tidings with a Napoleonic calmness ; 
and it was only when warned by the gathering 
darkness over Dalton’s brow that she thought it 
wiser to “ give in.” 

Dalton’s ill-humor had, however, a different 
source from that which she suspected. It pro- 


ceeded from the quiet but steady importunity 
with which little Hans paced up and down be- 
fore the door, now, appearing before one window, 
now, before another, totally insensible to the cold 
discouragement of Dalton’s looks, and evidently 
bent on paying no attention to all the signs and 
signals intended for his guidance. 

“ Doesn’t he see we’ve company in the house ? 
Hasn’t the little creature the sense to know that 
this is no time to be bothering and teasing about 
money ? Has he no decency ? Has he no re- 
spect for his superiors ?” Such were the deep 
mutterings with which Dalton tried to “ blow 
off the steam” of his indignation, while, with 
many a gesture and motion he intimated his 
anger and impatience. “Faix, he’s like a bai- 
liff out there,” cried he at last, as he issued 
forth to meet him. Whatever might have been 
the first angry impulses of his heart, his second 
thoughts were far more gentle and well-disposed 
as he drew near to Hanserl, who stood, cap in 
hand, in an attitude of deep and respectful at- 
tention. 

“ They have accepted the bail, Herr von Dal- 
ton, and this bond needs but your signature,” 
said Hans, mildly, as he held forth a paper to- 
ward him. 

“ Who’s the bail ? Give me the bond,” said 
Dalton, rapidly ; and not waiting for the answer 
to his question, “ where’s the name to be, Han- 
serl ?” 

“ Here, in this space,” said the dwarf, dry- 

] y- 

“ That’s soon done, if there’s no more want- 
ing,” rejoined Peter, with a laugh. “ ’Tis sel- 
dom that writing the same two words cost me 
so little ! Won’t you step in, a minute, into the 
house ? I’d ask you to stop and eat your din- 
ner, but I know you don’t like strangers, and 
we have company to-day. Well, well, no of- 
fense — another time, maybe, when we’re alone! 
He’s as proud as the devil, that little chap,” 
muttered he, as he turned back within the house; 
“ I never saw one of his kind that wasn’t. ’Tis 
only creatures with humpbacks and bent shins 
that never believes they can be wrong in this 
world ; they have a conceit in themselves that’s 
wonderful ! Not that there isn’t good in him, 
too — he’s a friendly soul as ever I seen ! There 
it is now. Peter Dalton’s hand and deed ;” and 
he surveyed the superscription with considerable 
satisfaction. “ There it is, Hans, and much 
good may it do you !” said he, as he delivered 
the document with an air of a prince conferring 
a favor on a subject. 

“ You will bear in mind that Abel Kraus is a 
hard creditor!” said Hans, who could not help 
feeling shocked at the easy indifference Dalton 
exhibirted. 

“Well, but havn’t we settled with him?” 
cried Peter, half impatiently. 

“ So far as surety for his claim goes — ” 

“Yes, that’s what I mean — he’s sure of his 
money — that’s all he wants. I’d be the well- 
off man to-day if I was sure of getting back all 


284 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ever I lent ! But nobody does, and, what’s 
more, nobody expects it.” 

“ This bond expires in twelve days,” added 
Hans, more than commonly anxious to suggest 
some prudential thoughts. 

“Twelve days!” exclaimed Peter, who in- 
stead of feeing alarmed at the shortness of 
the period, l’egarded it as so many centuries. 
“ Many’s the change one sees in the world in 
twelve days. Wouldn’t you take something — a 
glass of Marcobrunner, or a little plain Nantz ?” 

Hans made no reply, for with bent-down head, 
and hands crossed on his bosom, he was in deep 
thought. 

u I’m saying, that maybe you’d drink a glass 
of wine, Hans?” repeated Dalton, but still no 
answer came. “ What dreamy creatures them 
Germans are,” muttered Peter. 

“ And then, exclaimed Hanserl, as if speak- 
ing to himself, “It is but beginning life anew. 
Good-by — farewell.” And so saying, he touch- 
ed his cap courteously, and moved hastily away, 
while Dalton continued to look after him with a 
compassionate sorrow, for one so little capable 
ol directing his path in life. As he re-entered 
the house, he found that Mrs. Ricketts, abandon- 
ing all hope of her distinguished guests, had 
just ordered the dinner ; and honest Peter con- 
soled himself for their absence by observing, 
that they should be twice as jolly by themselves ! 
Had it depended on himself alone, the sentiment 
might have had some foundation, for there was 
something of almost wild gayety in his manner. 
All the vicissitudes of the morning, the painful 
alternations of hope and fear — hope, so faint as 
to be a torture, and fear, so dark as to be almost 
despair — had worked him up to a state of ex- 
treme excitement. 

To add to this, he drank deeply, quaffing off 
whole goblets of wine, and seeming to exult in 
the mad whirlwind of his own reckless jollity. 
If the jests he uttered on Scroope’s costume, or 
the other allegorical fancies of Zoe’s brain, 
were not of the most refined taste, they were at 
least heartily applauded by the indulgent public 
around his board. Mrs. Ricketts was in per- 
fect ecstasies at the flashes of his “ Irish wit 
and even Martha, fain to take on credit what 
was so worthily endorsed, laughed her own 
meek laugh of approval. As for Purvis, cham- 
pagne completed what nature had but begun, 
and he became perfectly unintelligible ere din- 
ner was over. 

All this while poor Nelly’s sufferings were 
extreme ; she saw the unblushing, shameless 
adulation of the parasites, and she saw, too, the 
more than commonly excited glare in her father’s 
eyes — the wildness of fever rather than the pass- 
ing excitation of wine. In vain her imploring, 
beseeching glances were turned toward him; in 
vain she sought, by all her little devices, to 
withdraw him from the scene of riotous debauch, 
or recall him from the excesses of a revel which 
was an orgie. In his wild and boastful vein, 
he raved about “home,” as he still called it, 


and of his family possessions — at times, vaunt- 
ing of his wealth and greatness, and then, as 
suddenly breaking into mad invectives against 
the Jews and money-lenders, to whom his ne- 
cessities had reduced him. 

“A o-ood run of luck over there !” cried he, 
frantically, and pointing to the blaze of lamps 
which now sparkled through the trees before 
the Kursaal. “ One good night yonder, and 
Peter Dalton will defy the world. If you’re a 
lucky hand, Miss Martha, come over and bet for 
me. I’ll make the bank jump for it before I go 
to bed ! I know the secret of it now. It’s 
changing from color to color ruins every body. 
You must be steady to one — black or red, which- 
ever it is ; stick fast to it. You lose two, three, 
maybe six or seven times running ; never mind, 
go on still. ’Tis the same with play as with 
women, as the old song says : 

If they’re coy and won’t hear when you say you adore, 
Just squeeze them the tighter and press them the more. 

Isn’t that it. Mrs. Ricketts? Ah, baithe'rshin ! 
you never knew that song. Miss Martha’s 
blushing; and just for that I’ll back ‘red’ all 
the evening ; and there’s the music beginning 
already. Here’s success to us all ! and, faix, 
it’s a pleasant way to deserve it.” 

Nelly drew near him as they were leaving 
the room, and, passing her arm fondly about 
him, whispered a few words in his ear. 

“ And why not this evening ?” said he, aloud, 
and in a rude voice. “ Is it Friday that it ought 
to bring bad luck? Why shouldn’t I go this 
evening ? I can’t hear you : speak louder. 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! Listen to that,- Miss Martha. 
There’s the sensible Nelly for you ! She says 
she had a dhrame about me last night.” 

“ No, dearest papa ; but that it was like a 
dream to me. All the narrative seemed so nat- 
ural — all the events followed so regularly, and 
yet I was awake just as I am now.” 
j “ More shame for you then. We can’t help 
ourselves what nonsense we think in our sleep.” 

“But you’ll not go, dearest papa. You’ll 
indulge me for this once, and I’ll promise never 
to tease you by such follies again.” 

“Faix, I’ll go, sure enough; and, what’s 
more, I’ll win five thousand pounds this night, 
as sure as my name’s Peter, I saw a black cat 
shaving himself before a new tin saucepan ; and 
if that isn’t luck, I’d like to know what is. A 
black cat won the Curragh Stakes for Tom Mol- 
ly ; and it was an egg saucepan made Doctor 
Groves gain the twenty thousand pounds in the 
lottery. And so now may I never leave this 
room if I’d take two thousand pounds for my 
chances to-night !” 

And in all the force of this confidence in for- 
tune, Dalton sallied forth to the Kursaal. The 
rooms were more than usually crowded, and it 
was with difficulty that, with Mrs. Ricketts on 
one arm and Martha on the other, he could force 
his way to the tables. Once there, however, a 
courteous reception awaited him, and the urbane 
croupier moved his own august chair to make 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


room for the honored guest. Although the com- 
pany was very numerous, the play was as yet 
but trifling ; a stray gold piece here or there 
glittered on the board, and in the careless languor 
of the bankers, and the unexcited looks of the 
bystanders might be read the fact that none of 
the well-known frequenters of the place were 
betting. Dalton’s appearance immediately cre- 
ated a sensation of curiosity. Several of those 
present had witnessed his losses on the preceding 
night, and were eager to see what course he 
would now pursue. It was remarked that he 
was not accompanied, as heretofore, by that 
formidable money-bag which, with ostentatious 
noise, he used to fling down on the table before 
him. Nor did he now produce that worn old 
leather pocket-book, whose bursting clasp could 
scarce contain the roll of bank notes within it. 
He sat with his hands crossed before him, star- 
ing at the table, but to all seeming not noticing 
the game. At length, suddenly rousing himself, 
he leant over and said a few words,, in a whis- 
per, to the croupier, who, in an equally low 
tone, communicated with his colleague across 
the table. A nod and a smile gave the quiet 
reply, and Dalton, taking a piece of paper, 
scrawled a few figures on it with a pencil, and 
with a motion so rapid as to be unseen by many 
of the bystanders, the banker pushed several 
“rouleaux” of gold before Dalton, and went on 
with the game. 

Dalton broke one of the envelopes, and as the 
glittering pieces fell out, he moved his fingers 
through them, as though their very touch was 
pleasure. At last, with a kind of nervous im- 
patience, he gathered up a handful, and, with- 
out counting, threw them on the table. 

“ How much ?” said the croupier. 

“ The whole of it !” cried Dalton : and scarce- 
ly had he spoken, when he won. 

A murmur of astonishment ran through the 
room as he suffered the double stake to remain 
on the board ; which speedily grew into a louder 
hum of voiees, as the banker proceeded to count 
out the gains of a second victory. Affecting an 
insight into the game and its chances which he 
did not possess, Dalton now hesitated and pon- 
dered over his bets, increasing his stake, at one 
moment, diminishing it at another, and assum- 
ing all the practiced airs of old and tried gam- 
blers. As though in obedience to every caprice, 
the fortune of the game followed him unerring- 
ly. If he lost, it was some mere trifle ; when 
he won, the stake was sure to be a large one. 
At length, even this affected prudence — this 
mock skill — became too slow for him, and he 
launched out into all his accustomed reckless- 
ness. Not waiting to take in his winnings, he 
threw fresh handfuls of gold among them, tilt 
the bank, trembling for its safety, more than 
once had to reduce the stakes he wished to ven- 
ture. 

“They’d give him five hundred Naps this 
moment if he’d cease to play,” said some one 
behind Dalton’s chair. “ There’s nothing the | 


285 

bank dreads so much as a man with courage to 
back his luck.” 

“ I’d wish them a good-night,” said another, 
“ if I’d have made so good a thing of it, as that 
old fellow ; he has won some thousand napoleons, 
I’m certain. 

“ He knows better than that,” said the former. 
“ This is a ‘ run’ with him, and he feels it is. 
He’ll ‘ break’ them before the night’s over.” 

Dalton heard every word of this colloquy, and 
drank in the surmise as greedily as did Mac- 
beth the witches’ prophecy. 

“He deserves to win, too,” resumed the last 
speaker: “for I never saw a man play more 
boldly.” 

“So much for boldness,” cried the other; 
“ he has just risked a fifth time on the red and 
lost. See, if it be not two hundred ‘Naps.’ ” 

The defeat had not disheartened him, for 
again Dalton covered the board with gold. As 
if that moment had been the turning point of his 
destiny, his losses now began, and with all the 
rapidity of his previous gains. At first he bore 
the reverse calmly and patiently ; after a while 
a slight gesture of impatience, a half-muttered 
exclamation would escape him ; but when loss 
followed loss unceasingly, and one immense 
stake disappeared after another, Dalton’s fin- 
gers trembled, and his cheeks shook like one in 
ague. His straining bloodshot eyes were fixed 
on the play with the intensity of passion, and 
a convulsive shudder would shake his massive 
frame at each new tidings of loss. “Am I 
never to have luck again ? Is it only to lead me 
on that I won ? Can this go on forever ?” were 
the low muttered words which now he syllabled 
with difficulty, for already his utterance was 
thipk, and his swollen tongue and flattened 
cheeks seemed threatened with paralysis. 

His last stake was swept away before him, 
and Dalton, unable to speak, stretched forth his 
arms across the table to arrest the banker’s 
hand. “A hundred ‘Naps’ on the red,” cried 
he, wildly ; “ no — two hundred — neck or nothing, 
I’ll go five — d’ye hear me? — five hundred on 
the red !” 

A short conversation in whispers ensued be- 
tween the croupiers, after which one of them 
spoke a few words to Dalton in a low voice. 

“ You never said so when I was losing,” cried 
Peter, savagely. “ I heard nothing about the 
rules of the tables then .” 

“ The stake is above our limit, sir ; above the 
limit laid down by law,” said the chief banker, 
mildly. 

“ 1 don’t care for your laws. I lost my money, 
and I’ll have my revenge.” 

“You can make half de stakes in my name, 
saar,” said a long-mustached and not over clean- 
looking personage beside Dalton’s chair. 

“That will do — thank you,” cried Dalton. 
“ Bet two hundred and fifty for me and I’ll stake 
the rest. ^ , 

A moment more, and the low voice of the 
croupier oroclaimed that red had lost 1 


286 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ What does he say — why won’t he speak 
plainly ?” cried Dalton, in a voice of passionate 
energy. , 4 

“ You lose de stake,” muttered the man be- 
hind him. 

“ Of course I do ; what other luck could I 
have ? Lose — lose — lose !” said he to himself, 
in a low, moaning voice. “ There the} r go — 
the fools ! — betting away as fresh as ever. Why 
won’t they take warning by me? beggared, 
ruined as it has left me. May I never ! if the 
red isn’t winning every time now!” And, as 
he spoke, his eyes followed a great heap of gold 
which some fortunate gambler just drew in be- 
fore him. “ How much did he win then ?” cried 
Dalton; but none replied to a question so con- 
trary to every etiquette of the table. 

“ He never counts it,” muttered Peter, as he 
continued to gaze on the lucky player with a 
kind of envious admiration. “ They say it’s best 
not to count one’s winnings. I don’t know 
what’s best; and I believe ’tis only the Devil 
knows — for it was he invented the game. — Red, 
again, the winner!” 

“ Why you no back de red ?” whispered the 
man behind his chair. 

Dalton started, and was about to give an 
angry reply, but corrected himself, and merely 
stared stupidly at him. 

“ You win eleven hundred napoleons if you 
do go on,” said the other, showing in proof of 
his assertion the card on which he had marked 
all the chances. 

“ And where’s the money?” cried Dalton, as, 
with a hissing utterance, he spoke, and pointed 
to the table before him. Have I Coutts’ bank 
at my back, or is all Lombard-street in my 
pocket ? ’Tis easy to say, go on ! — Red again, 
b Y j in g 0 1” 

“ I tell you dat !” said the other, gravely. 

Dalton turned round in his chair, and stared 
steadfastly at the speaker. His mind was in 
that state of wild confusion, when every con- 
ception, however vague and fanciful, assumes a 
certain degree of reality, and superstitions take 
on them all the force of warnings. What if his 
prompter were the Devil himself! was it not 
exactly what he had often heard of ? He never 
saw him there before, and certainly appearances 
were not much against the hypothesis. He was 
tall and spare, with a high, narrow forehead, and 
a pair of most treacherous looking black eyes, 
that seemed to let nothing escape their vigilance. 
Unabashed by, or indifferent to, Dalton’s scruti- 
ny, he went on with his chronicle of the game, 
noting down the chances, and only muttering a 
few words to himseif. 

“Nine times red,” said he, as he counted the 
scores. 

“ Will it go ten ?” asked Dalton, with a pur- 
poselike energy, that showed his faith in the 
oracle ; but the other never heeded the ques- 
tion. 

“ Back de red, I say ; back de red this time,” 
whispered he in Dalton’s ear. 


“Don’t you see that I have no money,” said 
Dalton, angrily. 

“Dey will lend on your name; ask for a 
hundred Naps. Be quick, be quick.” 

Dalton stooped across the table, and whisper- 
ed the croupier, who returned a look of doubt 
and uncertainty. Peter grew more pressing, 
and the other bent over, and spoke to his col- 
league. This time the request was not met 
with a smile and a bland bow, and Dalton 
watched with angry impatience all the signs of 
hesitation and deliberation between them. 

“ Say your banker is closed — that you must 
have de moneys,” whispered the dark man. 

“ Must I wait till the bank is open to-morrow 
morning ?” said Dalton, “ or do you mean to 
give me this trifle?” 

“ Our rules are strictly opposed to the prac- 
tice of lending, count,” whispered the croupier 
at his side ; “ we have alreaay transgressed 
them in your favor, and — ” 

“ Oh, don’t inconvenience the count,” inter- 
posed his colleague^ “How much is it?” 

Say two hundred — two!” muttered the un- 
known. 

“ Two hundred Naps,” cried Dalton, reso- 
lutely. 

“ This will make five hundred and forty to- 
night, count.” 

‘^And if it was five thousand,” said Peter, 
running his fingers through the gold with ecstasy, 
“what matter? There goes fifty on the red.” 

“ Ah, you play too rash,” whispered the dark 
man. 

“What business is it of yours? am I your 
ward?” cried Dalton, passionately, for the stake 
was lost in the same instant.' “ Red again, fifty. 
May I never ! if I don’t believe ’tis you brings 
me the bad luck,” said Dalton, darting a savage 
glance at the other, whose impassive face never 
betrayed the slightest emotion. 

“ I no wish to disturb your game, saar,” was 
the meek reply of the dark man, and with a bow 
of meek humility he backed through the crowd 
and disappeared. 

In a moment Dalton felt shocked at his own 
rudeness, and would have given worlds to havo 
recalled his words, or even apologized for them ; 
but other thoughts soon supplanted these, and 
again his whole heart was in the game. 

“You didn’t bet last time,” remarked some 
one near him, “ and your favorite color won.” 

“ No, I was looking about me. I was think- 
ing of something else,” replied he ; and he sat 
fingering the gold pieces as though unwilling 
to part with them. 

The game went on; luck came and went; 
the gold glittered and clinkled ; the same end- 
less “ refrain ” — “ Faites votre jeu, messieurs,” 
followed by the same sing-song phrases, con- 
tinued to roll on, and Dalton sat, now counting 
his money, and piling up the pieces into tens or 
twenties : or, with his head resting on his hand, 
deep in serious thought. Twice he placed a 
I heavy stake upon the table, and recalled it at 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the very moment of the game’s beginning. 
Every gesture and action showed the terrible 
struggle between hope and fear that went on 
within him. A red spot glowed on one cheek, 
while the other was pale as death, and his lips 
from time to time were moved with a short 
spasmodic jerk, as if some sudden pain shot 
through him. At last with a great effort he 
pushed all the gold into the centre of the table 
and cried out, but in a voice so strange and in- 
articulate, that the words could not be distin- 
guished. 

“You said ‘rouge,’ count, I think?” asked 
the croupier. 

“ I fancied the gentleman said ‘ noir,’ remark- 
ed a bystander. 

“ Let him declare for himself,” observed an- 
other. 

“ But the game has already begun,” said the 
banker. 

“So much the worse for the bank,” remarked 
another laughing 5 for it’s easy to see what will 
win.” 

“ Pray declare your color, sir,” said an im- 
patient gambler at Dalton’s side, “ the whole 
table is waiting for you.” 

Dalton started, and, darting an angry look at 
the speaker, made an effort to rise from the 
table. He failed at first, but grasping the shoul- 
der of the croupier, he arose to his full height, 
and stared around him. , All was hushed and 
still, not a sound was heard, as in that as- 
sembly, tom with so many passions, every eye 
was turned toward the gigantic old man, who, 
with red eye-balls and outstretched hands, seem- 
ed to hurl defiance at them. Backward and for- 
ward he swayed for a second or two, and then, 
with a low faint cry — the last wail of a broken 
heart — he fell with a crash upon the table. 
There he lay, his white hairs streaming over 
the gold and silver pieces, and his bony fingers 
flattened upon the cards. “ A fit ! — he’s in a 
fit !” cried some, as they endeavored to raise 
him. — “ Worse still !” remarked another, as he 
passed his hand from the pulse to the heart, “he 
is dead !” 

The hero of a hundred fights, he who has 
seen death in every shape and on every field, 
must yield the palm of indifference to its terrors 
to the gambler. All the glorious insanity of a 
battle, all the reckless enthusiasm of a storm, 
even the headlong impetuosity of a charge can 
not supply the cold apathy of the gambler’s 
heart ; and so was it that they saw in that life- 
less form nothing beyond a disagreeable inter- 
ruption to their game, and muttered their im- 
patience at the delay in its removal. 

“ Well,” said Mrs. Ricketts, as she sat in an 
adjoining apartment, “ have you any tidings of 
our dear ‘ Amphytrion ?’ — Is he winning to- 
night?” 

The question was addressed to the tall dark 
man, who so lately had been standing behind 
Dalton’s chair, and was our old acquaintance, 
Count Petrolaffsky. 


287 

“ He no win no more, madame,” replied he, 
solemnly. 

“ Has he gone away, then ? — has he gone 
home without us?” 

“ He has gone home, indeed — into the other 
world,” said he, shaking his head. 

“What do you mean, count? For heaven’s 
sake speak intelligibly.” 

“ I mean as I do say, madame. He play a 
game as would ruin Rothschild ; always change, 
and always at de wrong time, and never know 
when to make his ‘parole.’ Ah dat is de gran’ 
secret of all play ; when you know where to 
make your ‘ parole’ you win de whole world ! 
Well, he is gone now, poor man, he can not play 
no more !” 

“Martha — Scroope, do go — learn something 
— see what has happened.” 

“Oh, here’s the colonel. Colonel Hagger- 
stone, what is this dreadful news I hear?” 

“Your accomplished friend has taken a 
French leave of you, madame, and was in 
such a hurry to go, that he wouldn’t wait for 
another turn of the cards.” 

“ He ain’t d — d — dead ?” screamed Purvis. 

“ I’m very much afraid they’ll insist on bu- 
rying him to-morrow or next day under that 
impression, sir,” said Haggerstone. 

“ What a terrible event ! — how dreadful !” 
said Martha, feelingly ; “ and his poor daughter, 
who loved him so ardently.” 

“ That must be thought of,” interrupted Mrs. 
Ricketts, at once roused to activity by thoughts 
of self-interest. “Scroope, order the carriage 
at once. I must break it to her myself. Have 
you any particulars for me colonel?” 

“ None, madame ! If coroners were the 
fashion here, they’d bring in a verdict of ‘ Died 
from backing the wrong color, with a deodand 
against the rake !’ ” 

“ Yes, it is ver’ true, he always play bad,” 
muttered the Pole. 

And now the room began to fill with people 
discussing the late incident, in every possible 
mood, and with every imaginable shade of sen- 
timent. A few — a very few — dropped some 
expressions of pity and compassion. Many 
preferred to make a display of their own cour- 
age by a bantering, scornful tone, and some only 
saw in the event how unsuited certain natures 
were to contend with the changeful fortunes of 
high play. These were for the most part, Dal- 
ton’s acquaintances, and who had often told him 
— at least so they now took credit for — that 
“he had no head for play.” Interspersed with 
these were little discussions as to the immediate 
cause of death, as full of ignorance and as in- 
genious as such explanations usually are, all 
being contemptuously wound up by Hagger- 
stone’s remark, “ That death was like matri- 
mony — very difficult when wanted, but impos- 
sible, to escape when you sought to avoid it !” 
As this remark had the benefit of causing a 
blush to poor Martha, he gave his arm to the 

ladies, with a sense of gratification that came 

/ # • ^ 




288 THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


as near happiness as any thing he could im- 
agine. 

“ Is Miss Dalton in the drawing-room ?” 
said Mrs. Ricketts, as with an air of deep im- 
portance she swept through the hall of the 
Villa. 

“ She’s in her room, madame,” said the maid. 

“ Ask if she will receive me — if I may speak 
to her?” 


The maid went out, and returned with the 
answer that “ Miss Dalton was sleeping.” 

“ Oh, let her sleep !” cried Martha. lt Who 
knows when she will taste such rest again?” 

Mrs. Ricketts bestowed a glance of withering 
scorn on her sister, and pushed roughly past her, 
toward Nelly’s chamber. A few minutes after 
a wild shrill shriek was heard through the house, 
and then all was still ! 

. - , . - • . . * W 


























CHAPTER LX. 

NELLY’S SORROWS. 


•• . - - ; u-* 

Stunned, but not overcome, by the terrible 
shock, Nelly Dalton sat beside the bed where 
the dead man lay in all that stern mockery of 
calm so dreadful to look upon. Some candles 
burned on either side, and threw a yellowish 
glare over the bold, strong features on which 
her tears had fallen, as, with a cold hand clasped 
in his, she sat and watched him. 

With all its frequency, Death never loses its 
terrors for us ! Let a man be callous as a hard 
world, and a gloomy road in it, can make him ; 
let him drug his mind vrith every anodyne of in- 
fidelity; let him be bereft of all affection, and 
walk alone on his life road ; there is yet that 
which can thi'ill his heart in the aspect of the 
lips that are never to move more, and the eyes 
that are fixed forever. But what agony of suf- 
fering is it w’hen the lost one has been the link 
that tied us to life — the daily object of our care 
— the motive of every thought and every action ! 
Such had been her father to poor Nelly. His 
wayward, capricious humors, all his infirmities 
of temper and body, had called forth those ex- 
ertions whiclf made the business of her life, and 
gave a purpose and direction to her existence, 
now, repaid by some passing expression of thank- 
fulness or affection, or, better still, by some tran- 
sient gleam of hope that he was stronger in 
health, or better in spirits, than his wont. Now, 
rallied by that sense of duty which can ennoble 
the humblest, as it can the greatest of human 
efforts, she watched over him as might a mother 
over an ailing child. Catching at his allusions 
to “ Home” as he still called it, she used to feed 
her hopes with thinking that at some distant day 
they were to return to their own land again, and 
pass their last years in tranquil retirement to- 
gether ; and now Hope and Duty were alike ex- 
tinguished. “ The fount that fed the river of 
her thoughts” was dry, and she was alone — ut- 
terly alone — in the world ! 

Old Andy, recalled by some curious instinct 
to a momentary activity, shuffled about the room, 
snuffing the candles, or muttering a faint prayer 
at the bedside ; but she did not notice him any 
more than the figure who, in an attitude of deep 
devotion, knelt at the foot of the bed. This was 
Hanserl, who, book in hand, recited the offices 
with all the fervent rapidity of a true Catholic. 
Twice, he started and looked up from his task, 
disturbed by some noise without; but when it 
occurred a third time, he laid his book gently 
down, and stole noiselessly from the room. 
J T 


^ * / \ ■ * i • . . v- ,, . “v* *r * > 

Passing rapidly through the little chamber, 
which used to be called Nelly’s drawing-room, 
he entered the larger dining-room, in which now 
three or four ill-dressed men were standing, in 
the midst of whom was Abel Kraus in active 
colloquy with Mr. Purvis. Hanserl made a 
gesture to enforce silence, and pointed to the 
room from whence he had just come. 

“Ah!” cried Scroope, eagerly; “you’re a 
kind of co — co — connection, or friend at least, of 
these people ain’t you? Well, then, speak to 
this wo — worthy man and tell him that he 
mustn’t detain our things here ; we were merely 
on a visit.” 

“ I will suffer nothing to leave the house till 
I am paid to the last kreutzer,” said Kraus, 
sternly ; “ the law is with me, and I know it.” 

“ Be, patient; but above all, respect the dead,” 
said Hans, solemnly. “ It is not here, nor at 
this time, these things should be discussed.” 

“ But we wa — want to go, we have ta — ta— - 
taken our apartments at the ‘Russie.’ The 
sight of a funeral and a — a — a hearse, and all 
that, would kill my sister.” 

“ Let her pay these moneys, then, and go in 
peace,” said Kraus, holding forth a handful of 
papers. 

“ Not a gr — groschen, not a kreutzer will we 
pay. It!s an infamy, it’s a sh — sh — shameful 
attempt at robbery. It’s as bad as st — stopping 
a man on the highway.” 

“ Go on, sir — go on. You never made a 
speech which cost you dearer,” said Kraus, as 
he took down the words in his pocket-book. 

“I — I — I didn’t mean that; I didn’t say you 
w T ere a housebreaker.” 

“Speak lower,” said Hans, sternly. “And 
you, sir; what is this demand?” 

“ Two thousand francs rent of this house ; 
what, with damage to the furniture and other 
charges, will make two thousand eight hundred.” 

“ I will pay it,” said Hans, stopping him. 

“ Your credit would be somewhat better, 
Master Hans, had you not given a certain bail 
bond that you know of,” said Kraus, sneeringly. 

“I have wherewith to meet my debts,” said 
Hans, calmly. 

“ I will claim ray bond within a week — -I give 
you notice of it,” said Kraus. 

“ You shall be paid to-morrow. Let us be 
in peace to-night — bethink you what that room 
contains ?”> 

“ He ain’t black, is he ? I — I wouldn’t look 


290 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


at him for a thousand pounds,” said Purvis, with 
a shudder. 

“If she remain here after noon, to-morrow,” 
said Kraus, in a low voice, “ a new month will 
have begun.” 

“ To-morrow afternoon — Lord ! how cjose he 
r — ran it,” exclaimed Purvis. 

“ Once more, I say, be patient,” said Hans. 
“Let these good people go. You shall lose 
nothing — I pledge the word of a man who never 
told a falsehood. I will pay all. Have some 
pity, however, for this orphan — one who has 
now neither a home nor a country.” 

“ Yes, yes, he'll have p — pity ; he’s an ex- 
cellent man is Mr. Kraus. I shouldn’t wonder 
if we’d come to terms about this Yi — Villa for 
ourselves.” 

Hans turned a look of anger toward him, and 
then said : — “ Go, sir, and take those that be- 
long to you away also. This place no longer 
can suit you nor them. He who lies yonder can 
be flattered and fawned on no more ; and, as 
for her, she is above your compassion, if it even 
lay in your heart to offer it.” 

“He ain’t quite right here,” whispered Purvis 
to Kraus, as he tapped his forehead significantly. 
“They told me that in the town.” 

Kraus moved away without reply, and Purvis 
followed him. “ He’s rich too, they say,” added 
he, in a whisper. 

“ They’ll scarcely say as much, this day 
week,” said Kraus, sneeringly; while, beckon- 
ing his people to follow him, he left the house. 

No sooner did Mrs. Ricketts learn that her 
worldly possessions were safe, and that the harpy 
clutches of the law could make no seizure 
among those curious turbans and wonderful tu- 
nics which composed her wardrobe, than she 
immediately addressed herself to the active du- 
ties of the hour, with a mind at ease, and, while 
packing her trunks, inadvertently stowed aw T ay 
such little stray articles as might not be imme- 
diately missed, and might serve hereafter to re- 
call thoughts of “ poor dear Miss Dalton,” for so 
she now preferred to name her. 

“ Those little box figures, Martha ; don’t for- 
get them. They, of course, don’t belong to the 
house ; and Scroope suspects that the bracket for 
the hall lamp must have been her carving also.” 

“I’ve p — put aw r ay tw T o pencil drawings 
marked ‘ E. D.,’ and a little sketch in oil of the 
Alien Schloss ; and I’ve my pockets stuffed with 
the tulip roots.” 

“Well thought of, Scroope; and there’s a beau- 
tiful paper-knife — poor thing, she’s not likely to 
want it now. What a sad bereavement ! And 
are his affairs really so bad ?” 

“Ov — over head and ears in debt. There 
ain’t enough to bury him, if the Dwarf does not 
shell out — but he will. They say he’s in love 
with Nelly — he, he, he !” ' 1 

“ Shocking, quite shocking. Yes, Martha, 
that telescope is a very good one. What im- 
providence what culpable improvidence !” 

“ And is she quite friendless?” asked Martha, 
feelingly. . -\ 


“ Not while she has our protection,” said Mrs. 
Ricketts, grandly. I’ve determined ‘ to take 
her up.’ ” 

Martha reddened slightly at the phrase, for 
she knew T of some other w r ho had been so “taken 
up,” and with what small profit to their pros- 
perity ! 

/ “ Her talents, when aided by our patronage, 
will always support her,” said Mrs. Ricketts, 
“and I mean, when the shock of calamity is 
past, to employ lief on a little group foy a cen- 
tre-piece for our dinner-table. She will, of 
course, be charmed to have her genius displayed 
to'such advantage. It will afford us a suitable 
opportunity of introducing her name.” 

“ And w r e shall have the piece of carving for 
nothing,” said Martha, w T ho innocently believed 
that she was supplying another argument of 
equal delicacy and force. 

“You’re an idiot!” said Mrs. Ricketts, an- 
grily, “and I begin to fear you will never be 
any thing else;” ■ , ,, 

“I’m quite sure I shall not,” muttered the 
other, with a faint submissiveness, and continued 
her task of packing the trunks. 

“ Take care that you find out her sister’s ad- 
dress, Martha. I am sadly in want of some 
furs; that tippet, I suppose, is only fit for you 
now, and my sable muff is like a dog in the 
mange. The opportunity is a most favorable 
one, for when the Princess, as they persist in 
calling her, knows that her sister is our depend- 
ent, w T e may. make our own terms. It w T ould 
be the very ruin of her in St. Petersburg to pub- 
lish such a fact.” , 

“But Miss Dalton will surely write to lifer, 
herself.” 4 

“ She can be persuaded, I trust, to the con- 
trary,” said Mrs. Ricketts, knowingly; “she 
can be showrn that such an appeal would in all 
likelihood wreck her sister’s fortunes, that the 
confession of such a relationship w r ould utterly 
destroy her position in that proud capital ; and, 
if she prove obstinate, the letter need not go ; 
you understand that, at least,” added she, with 
a contemptuous glance that made poor Martha 
tremblq. 

Mrs. Ricketts w*as now T silent, and sat revel- 
ing in the various thoughts that her active mind 
suggested. Upon the wdiole, although Dalton’s 
dying was an inconvenience, there were some 
compensating circumstances. She had gained 
a most useful protegee in Nelly — one w T hose tal- 
ents might be made of excellent use, and whose 
humble, unpretending nature, W’ould exact no 
requital. Again, the season at Baden w 7 as nearly 
over, a week or two more, at most, was all that 
remained. The “ Villino,” wfiiich she had let 
for the summer to some confiding family, who 
believed that Florence was a Paradise in July 
and August, w T ould again be at her disposal, and, 
in fact as she phrased it, “ the conjunctures w r ere 
all felicitous,” and her campaign had not been 
unfruitful. This latter fact attested itself in 
the aspect of her traveling carriage, with its 
“ spolia” on the roof, and its various acquired 


291 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


objects under the body — j ictures, china, plate, 
coins, brocades, old lace, books, prints, manu- 
scripts, armor, stained glass, trinkets, and relics 
ot all kinds, showed that travel with her was 
no unprofitable occupation, and that she had 
realized the grand desideratum of combining 
pleasure with solid advantage. 

Meanwhile, so ingenious is thorough selfish- 
ness, she fancied herself a benefactor of the 
whole human race. All the cajoleries she used 
to practice, she thought were the amiable over- 
flowings of a kindly nature; her coarse flatteries 
she deemed irresistible fascinations ; her duperies 
even seemed only the triumphs of a mind trans- 
cendency rich in resources; and she never for a 
moment suspected that the false coin she was ut- 
tering could be called in question, though the 
metal was too base for imposition. There is no 
supply without demand, and if the world did not 
like such characters there would be none of 
them ! The Ricketts are, however, a large and 
an increasing class in society, and, to our na- 
tional shame be it said, they are distinctively 
English in origin. And now we leave her, little 
regretting if it be forever ; and if we turn to a 
darker page in our story, it is, at least, to one 
wherein our sympathies are more fairly enlisted. 

That long night passed over like a dreary 
dream, and morning was now mingling its beams 
with the glare of the tapers, as Nelly sat beside 
the death-bed. • , . ' 

“ Come with me, Fraulein ; come away from 
this,” said Hanserl, as with a tearful eye and 
quivering lip he sto«d before her. 

Nelly shook her head slowly, and for answer 
turned her gaze on the dead man. 

“ You shall come back again ; I promise you, 
you shall come back again,” said he, softly. 

She arose without a word, and followed him. 
They passed through an outer room, and entered 
the garden, where Hans, taking her hand, led 
her to a seat.. • * 

“ You will be better here, Fraulein,” said he, 
respectfully; “ the air is fresh and balmy.” 

“ He sat beside me on this bench three nights 
ago,” said she, as if talking to herself, u and 
said how he wished I could be with Kate, but 
that he could not part with me; and see — we 
are parted, and for a longer separation ! Oh, 
Hanserl ! what we would give to recall some 
of the past, when Death has closed it forever 
against us !” 

“Remember Wieland, Fraulein; he tells us 
that ; the impossible is a tree without fruit or 
flowers.’” 

“ And yet my mind will dwell on nothing else. 
The little thwartings of his will — the cold com- 
pliance which should have been yielded in a bet- 
ter spirit — the counsels that often only irritated 
— how they rise up now, like stern accusers, 
before me, and tell me that I failed in my duty.” 

“Not so, Fraulein — not so,” said Hans, rev- 
erently. ' . 

“ But there is worse than that, Hanserl, far 
worse,” said she tremblingly, “lo smooth the 
rough path of life, I descended to deception. I 


t r 

told him the best when my heart felt the worst. 
Had he known of Kate’s real lot, and had ho 
sorrowed over her fortunes, might not such grief 
have been hallowed to him ! To have wept over 
Frank — the poor boy in prison — might have 
raised his thoughts to other themes than the dis- 
sipation that surrounded him. And all this was 
my fault. I would have his love, and see the 
price it has cost me !” She hid her face between 
her hands, and never spoke for a long time. At 
length she lifted up her eyes, red as they were 
with weeping, and, with a heavy sigh, said, 
“ How far is it to Vienna, Hanserl ?” 

“ To Vienna ! Fraulein. It is a long journey 
— more than four hundred miles ; but why do 
you ask ?” 

“I was thinking that if I saw Count Stephen — ■ 
if I could but tell him our sad story myself- — that 
he might intercede for poor Frank, and perhaps 
obtain his freedom. His crime can scarcely be 
beyond the reach of mercy, and his youth will 
plead for him. And is it so far away, Hanserl ?” 

“ At the very least — and a costly journey too.” 

“ But I would go on foot, Hans. Lame as I 
am, I can walk for miles without fatigue, and I 
feel as if the exertion would be a solace to me, 
and that my mind, bent upon a good object, 
could the more easily turn away from my own 
desolation. Oh, Hans, think me not selfish that 
I speak thus; but thoughts of my own loneliness 
are so linked with all I have lost, I can not sep- 
arate them. Even the humble duty that I filled 
gave a value to my life, without which, my 
worthlessness would have crushed me — for what 
could poor lame Nelly be ? I, that had no buoy- 
anee for the young — no ripe judgment for the 
old — and yet, in caring for him that is gone, I 
found a taste of love and happiness.” 

“I will go with you, Fraulein; you shall not 
take this weary road alone. Heaven knows 
that, without you, this place would be too dreary 
for me.” 

“ But your house, Hanserl — all that you pos- 
sess — the fruits of all your hard industry — ” 

“ Speak not of them,” said Hans, reddening. 
“ They who deem me rich are mistaken. I have 
speculated ill — I have made bad ventures — and 
what I have will but pay my debts, and I will 
be glad to quit this spot.” 

“And I,” said Nelly, with a voice of deep 
emotion — “ I can not say that I can help you. 
I know nothing of what may remain to me in 
this world ; my father never spoke to me latterly 
of his means, and I may be, for aught I know, 
a beggar. Will you see his banker and speak 
with him 

“I have done so,” said Hans, slowly. “Jde 
claims some small sum as due to him.” 

“ And how am I to pay it ?.” said Nelly grow- 
ing pale. “ It. is true I can labor — ” 

“ Have no care for this Fraulein. It shall be 
looked to, and you shall repay it hereafter.” 

“ Oh, Hanserl, beware !"’ said she, solemnly; 
“ we are an unfortunate race to those who help 
us; my poor father often said so, and even his 
superstitions are hallowed to me now.” 


292 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


A gesture from some one within the house 
called Hans away, and Nelly was left alone. 
She sat with her eyes closed and her hands firmly 
clasped, deep in her own sad thoughts, when she 
heard a footstep close by. It was old Andy,, 
who, with a piece of ragged crape fastened round 
his arm, was slowly tottering toward her. His 
face was flushed, and his eye wild and excited, 
as he continued to mutter and reply to himself, 

“ A Dalton — one of the ould stock — and may- 
be the last of them too.” 

“What is it, Andy? — tell me what is it?” 
said she kindly. 

“ There’s no wake — there isn’t as much as a 
tenant’s child would have !” 

“We are almost friendless here, Andy. It is 
not our own country.” 

“ Ain’t they Christians, though ; couldn’t they 
keep the corpse company ? Is it four candles and 
a deal coffin ought to be at a Dalton’s burial?” 



“ And we are poor also,” said she, meekly. 
“And hasn’t the poorest respect for the 
dead ?” said he, sternly. “ Wouldn’t they sell 
the cow, or the last pig, out of honor to him 
that’s gone to glory. I’ll not stay longer in the 
place ; I’ll have my discharge 5 I’ll go back to 
Ireland.” ' 'r, ’ , - 

“Poor fellow,” said Nelly, taking his hand, 
kindly, and seating him beside her. “ You loved 
him so ! and he loved you , Andy. He loved to 
hear you sing your old songs, and tell over the 
names of his favorite hounds.” 

“ Bessy and Countess were the sweetest 
among them,” said the old man, wandering away 
to old memories of the past, “but Nora was 
truer than either.” And sO he fell into a low 
mumbling to himself, endeavoring, as it seemed, 
to recall the forgotten line of some hunting chant, 
while Nelly returned to the house to take her 
last farewell, ere the coffin lid was closed. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

A LAST ADIEU. 


The pleasure-seekers of Baden were not likely 
to be diverted from their pursuits by such humble 
calamities as Nelly Dalton’s, and the gay world 
went on its gay road as merrily as though Death 
or Ruin could have no concern for them. Al- 
ready the happy groups were gathering before 
the Kursaal. The sounds of music filled the 
air. Wealth was displaying its gorgeous at- 
tractions ; beauty, her fascinations ; and wit, its 
brilliancy ; and none had a thought for that sad 
episode which a few hours had half obliterated 
from every mind. Under a spreading chestnut- 
tree, and around a table sumptuously spread for 
breakfast, a large party was assembled, discuss- 
ing the news of the morning, and the plans of 
pleasure for the day. Some had but thoughts 
for the play-table, and could attune their ears to 
no other sounds than the clink of the gold and 
the rake of the croupier — others chatted of the 
world of politics and fashion — and a few, with 
that love of the picturesque the taste for painting 
engenders, were admiring the changeful effects 
of passing clouds on the landscape, and point- 
ing out spots of peculiar beauty and sub- 
limity. 

“ How well the Alten Schloss looks, with that 
mass of shadow on it,” remarked a young man 
to a fair and delicate looking girl beside him ; 
“ And see how the weeping ash waves over the 
old walls, like a banner.” 

“ And look !” cried she — “ mark that little 
procession that is slowly winding up the path- 
way — what effect the few figures give to the 


scene, as they appear and disappear with each 
turning of the road. Some pilgrimage to t 
Holy Shrine, I fancy.” 

“ No ; it is a funeral. I can mark wha*. 
Shelley calls the step of the bearers, ‘ heavy anf 
slow and, if you listen, you’ll catch the sound 
of the death-bell.” 

'“It’s quite a picture, I declare,”, said she. 
“ I wish I had brought my sketch-book.” 

And so it is ever ! The sorrows that are 
rending some hearts in twain are but as objects 
of picturesque effect to others. And even the 
young and the tender-minded learn to look on the 
calamities that touch them not as things of mere 
artistic meaning. 

Up that steep road, over rock and rugged 
stone, brushing between the tangled briars, or 
with difficulty being turned around some sharp 
angle, was now borne the corpse of him who 
had so often wended the same path on his home- 
ward way. Four peasants carried the coffin, 
which was followed by Nelly and old Andy ; 
Hans, from a sense of respect, walking behind 
them. 

It was a long, arduous ascent, and they were 
often obliged to halt and take breath ; and at 
such times Nelly would kneel down beside the 
coffin and pray. The sufferings of the last two 
days had left deep traces on her features, which 
had lost every tinge of color ; her eyes too, were 
deep-set and heavy ; but in the elevated express- 
ion of her brow at moments, and the compress- 
ion of her lips, might be seen the energy of one 


293 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. "• 


who had a firm purpose, and was resolved to 
carry it through. 

u Sit down and rest yourself, Fraulein,” said 
Hans, as he saw that she faltered in her step. 

We are yet far from the top.” 

u I will rest at the fountain,” said she, faintly. 
u It was a favorite spot of his.” And they moved 
slowly on, once more. 

The fountain was a little well, carved in the 
native rock, around which some rude seats were 
also fashioned, the whole sheltered by a thick 
root of foliage, which even in noon-day cast a 
deep shadow around, and effectually screened 
it from the path that wound along beside it. 

Scarcely had the bearers deposited the coffin 
beside the well when the sound of voices was 
heard as a considerable number of persons de- 
scended the path. Words in French, German, 
and English, showed that the party consisted of 
representatives of these nations ; but one voice, 
if once heard not readih' forgotten, towered high 
above all the rest. 

“1 can not offer my arm, madam,” cried a 
sharp, ringing accent ‘as the infernal road will 
not admit of two abreast, but I can go before 
and pilot you.” v 

“Oh, thanks, sir,” replied a mild, meek tone; 
“ I can get on very well indeed. I am only 
uneasy about my sister.” 

“I don't suspect that she incurs either much 
risk or fatigue, madam,” rejoined the other, 
“Seeing that she is seated in an arm-chair, and 
carried by two of the stoutest fellows in Baden.” 

“But the exertion, in her weak state — ” 

“ She might make the ascent of Mont Blanc, 
madam, with the same appliances; and if you 
only told her that there were bargains to be 
had at the top, I verily believe she would do 
so.” 

“ You don’t think the things were cheap 
here, colonel ?” said Miss Mart ha, who thought 
by a diversion to draw Haggerstone away from 
so dangerous a discussion. 

“ I am no connoisseur in Dutch dolls — nor 
Noah’s arks, madam, although modern society 
presents us with something very like both; but 
I concluded that the prices w T ere not exorbitant. 
I went there myself from a sense of equity. I 
once put a bullet into the little rascal’s skin, and 
I have bought a salad fork and a nutcrackers in 
requital.” 

“ It w r as kindly thought of,” sighed Martha, 
gently. 

“ They only cost me nine kreutzers. madam,” 
rejoined Haggerstone, who w T as more afraid of 
being thought a dupe than ill-natured, “so that 
my sense of generosity did not make a fool of 
me, as it did with the Dwmrf himself.” 

“How so?” 

“ Why, in going security for that old Irish- 
man, Dalton. It is to pay this debt that he has 
been sold out to-day, and I fancy that Swiss 
cotta sies and barking poodles will realize a very 
smali dividend.” 

“Oh, H arise rl !” said Nelly, u what do I 
hear?” 


“Hush, Fraulein!” said he, with a gesture 
to enforce silence. “I will tell you of these 
things, hereafter.” And now the others passed, 
and w r ere soon out of hearing. 

“ Oh, Hanserl !” cried Nelly, bitterly, “ how 
misfortunes crowd upon me ! It was but a 
moment back I was feeding my mind w T ith the 
sad consolation that my griefs were all my owm 
— that the gloom of my dreary fortune cast no 
shadow on another; and now I see that I was 
w T rong. You must pay the dear penalty of hav- 
ing befriended us ! — the fruits of all your hard 
years of industry !” 

“ And you would rob me of their best reward 
— the glorious sense of a generous action ?” 
broke in Hans. “ They were years of toil and 
privation, and they might have been years of 
pleasure, if avarice and greed had growm upon 
me, but I could not become a miser.” 

“ The home you had made your owm, lost to 
you forever !” sighed Nelly. 

“ It was no longer a home wdien you left it.” 

“ The well-wmn provision for old age, Han- 
serl.” 

“ And has not this event made me young 
again, and able to brave the wrnrld, w r ere it 
twice as adverse as ever I found it? Oh, Frau- 
lein, you know T not the heart-bounding ecstasy 
of him who, from the depth of a humble station, 
can rise to do a service to those he looks up to ! 
And yet it is that thought which now warms my 
blood, and gives an energy to my nature, that, 
even in youth, I never felt.” 

Nelly w T as silent; and now neither spoke a 
word, but sat wfith bent dowm heads, deep sunk 
in their owm reveries. At last she arose, and 
once more the sad procession resumed its wmy. 
They toiled slowdy along, till they reached the 
little level table land, wiiere the church stood — 
a little chapel, scarcely larger than a shrine, but 
long venerated as a holy spot. Poor Dalton had 
often spent hours here, gazing on the wide ex- 
panse of plain, and mountain, and forest, that 
stretched away beneath ; and it was in one of 
his evening rambles that he had fixed upon the 
spot where they should lay him, if he could nut 
“rest his bones with his forefathers.” 

“ Sixty -eight !” muttered the old priest, as he 
read the inscription on the coffin-lid — “ in the 
pride and vigor of manhood ! Was he noble, 
that I see these quarterings painted here?” 

“ Hush — that is his daughter,” whispered 
Hanserl. 

“ If he were of noble blood, he should have 
lain in the chapel, and on a catafalque,” mutter- 
ed the priest. 

“ The family is noble — but poor,” said Hans, 
in a low whisper. 

“ A low mass, without the choir, would not 
ruin the poorest,” said the priest, who sprinkled 
the coffin with half impatience, and, mumbling 
a few prayers, retired. And now the body was 
committed to the earth, and the grave was filled. 
The last sod was patted down with the shovel; 
and Nelly, unable to bear her grief any longer 
in silence, threw herself on the spot, and wept 


294 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


bitterly. Hans withdrew, and motioned to the 
others to follow him ; and none remained but 
old Andy, who, on his knees, and with clasped 
hands, seemed to think that he was praying, 
although all his attention was directed to a little 
group of children who stood near, and whom he 


awed into reverence by many a threatening ges- 
ture. 

And thus the long day stole over; and it was 
only as evening drew nigh, that Nelly could be 
induced to take her last farewell, and breathe 
her last prayer over the grave of her father. 


CHAPTER LXII. 

THE TYROL JOURNEY. 


' v* V . • - ^ ' i ' 

If our task as story-teller had not other claims 
on us, we would gladly linger with Nelly Dalton, 
as, in company with Hanserl and old Andy, she 
wended her slow w 7 ay through the deep valleys of 
the Sclnvarzwald. The little party might have 
created astonishment in even more frequented 
districts than the primitive tract in which they 
journeyed, and have suggested many a puzzling 
doubt as to what rank or condition they belong- 
ed. For Andy’s convenience Hans had pur- 
chased an ass and a small cart, such are some- 
times used by the traveling beggars of every 
land. Seated in this, and in his old hunting-cap 
and scarlet-coat, the old man fancied it w T ere 
some pleasure excursion, or that he was “ trund- 
ling along” to “cover,” as he used to do sixty 
years ago. Nelly walked at his side, now roused 
from her deep musings to reply to some mean- 
ingless question of the old man, or now 7 , feeding 
her sad memories as she listened to the little 
snatches of song w 7 hich occasionally broke from 
him. Hanserl formed the rear-guard, making, 
with his redoubted battle-ax, and a most formid- 
able old Turkish pistol, not the least singular 
figure in the procession. Their very baggage, 
too, had something strange and incomprehensi- 
ble to common eyes ; for, amid stray scraps of 
old armor, the little remnants of Hanserl’s col- 
lection, were to be seen an unfinished figure 
by Nelly’s hand, or the rude beginning of some 
new 7 group. Along w 7 ith these were books and 
tools, and an infinity of queer costumes, of the 
Dw 7 arf’s ow 7 n designing, for various seasons of 
the year. 

Still there was no impertinence in the curios- 
ity that met them. If Andy’s strange equipage 
and stranger dress might have raised a smile, 
Nelly’s gentle look and modest air as rapidly 
checked it, and they w 7 ho would have laughed 
outright at Hanserl’s moek-chieftainship w r ere 
subdued to a respectful deference by the placid 
dignity of her who w 7 alked before him. It w 7 as 
in that memorable year w’hose doings are re- 
corded in our memory w 7 ith all the solemn force 
of History, and all the distinct and vivid effect 
of events passing before our own eyes. That 
era, wdien Thrones rocked and tottered, and 


Kings, who seemed destined to transmit their 
crow r ns to unborn generations, became exiles, 
and cast aw 7 ay ; their state a mockery, ar.d their 
princely homes given up to pillage. When the 
brightest day-dreams of good men became bound 
up w 7 ith the wildest imaginings of the bold and 
the bad, and the w 7 ord Freedom comprehended 
all that w 7 as most glorious in self-dbvotion, and 
all that w r as most relentless in hate ! In that 
troubled time, Hanserl w’isely sought out the 
districts of mountain and crag — the homes of the 
hunter — in preference to the more traveled roads, 
and prudently preferred even the devious wind- 
ings of the solitary glens to the thronged and 
peopled highways that connected great cities. 

His plan w 7 as to direct their steps through the 
Vorarlberg into the Tyrol, w’here in a small vil- 
lage, near Meran, his mother still lived. There, 
in case of need, Nelly w 7 ould find a refuge, and, 
at all events, could halt w 7 hile he explored the 
w r ay.to Vienna, and examined how far it might 
be safe for her to proceed thither. Even in all 
her affliction, out of the depths of a sorrow so 
devoid of hope, Nelly felt the glorious influence 
of the grand scenery through W'hieh they travel- 
ed. The giant mountains, snow 7 -capped in early 
autumn, the boundless forests that stretched 
along their sides, the foaming cataracts as they fell 
in sheets of hissing w 7 ater, the tranquil lakes" that 
reflected tower and cliff and spire, the pictur- 
esque village, w 7 here life seemed to ripple on as 
peacefully as the clear stream before the peas- 
ant’s door, the song of the birds, the tolling of 
the bells, the laugh of the children, the Alp horn 
answ T ered from cliff to cliff, and dying aw r ay in 
distant echo — all these w r ere realizations of many 
a girlish hope, w 7 hen she wished her father to 
seek out some secluded village, and pass a life 
of obscure but united labor. There w 7 a.s no 
Quixotism in the fancy. She knew 7 well w’hat 
it w r as to toil and w ork ; to rise early, and go 
late to rest ; to feed on coarse fare, and be clad 
in mean attire. All that poverty can inflict of 
privation she had tasted, but fearlessly, and with 
a bold heart; self-reliance elevating her thoughts 
above every little adverse incident, and giving 
to her struggle that character of a task, a holy 


295 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


and a righteous task, which made at once her 
life’s purpose and reward. 

Scarcely a village at which they halted that 
did not strike her as like what her mind had 
often pictured for “their own,” and many a 
quaint old house, with its carved galleries and 
latticed porch, she stood to gaze on, fancying it 
their home, and peopling every spot with the 
forms 61 those she loved. Oh ! why had they 
not chosen this humble road? — why had their 
“ Paths in Life” separated ? — were the bitter 
reflections which now filled her eyes with tears 
and made her bosom heave almost to bursting. 
She did not foolishly suppose that the peasant 
can claim exemption from the trials and crosses 
of life, and that sorrow finds no entrance into 
remote and unfrequented tracts, but she knew 
that such burdens would not be too heavy for 
their strength, and that, while living a life of 
unpretending poverty, they should be free from 
the slavery of an assumed position, and able to 
combat the world fairly and honestly. 

Of all lands the Tyrol is best suited to foster^ 
such feelings as these. There is a harmony 
and a keeping about it that is rarely found else- 
where. The dwellings of the people so ac- 
cording with the character of the scenery ; the 
costumes, the greetings, the songs of the peas- 
antry, their simple and touching piety, their 
manners so happily blending independence with 
courtesy, are felt, at once, as a charm, and give 
a color to the enjoyment of every one who so- 
journs among them. These were the sights 
and sounds which, better than all the blandish- 
ments of wealth, could soothe poor Nelly’s sor- 
row, and make her thankful in the midst of her 
afflictions even to have witnessed them. As for 
Hanserl, his excitement grew daily higher as he 
passed tthe Arlberg and drew near the spots he 
had seen in childhood. Now, preparing some 
little surprise for Nelly, as they turned the angle 
of a cliff and gaz6d down upon a terrible gorge 
beneath ; now, apprising her of some little shrine 
where pious wayfarers were wont to halt and 
pray ; now, speculating if the old host of the 
village inn would be alive, or still remember 
him, he went along merrily, occasionally sing- 
ins some “ Alp Lied,” or calling to mind some 
ancient legend of the scene through which they 
journe}'ed. Above all, however, was his delight 
at the thought of seeing his old mother again. 
No sense of disappointment dashed this pleasure 
because he was returning poor and penniless. 
Home and the “ Frau Mutter,” as he reverently 
called her, had their hold upon his heart quite 
distinct from every accident of fortune. To tell 
her of all he had seen in far-away lands, for 
Hanserl thought himself a great traveler ; to 
describe the great Cathedral of Worms, of its 
vaulted aisles, and painted windows, of its 
saintly effigies and deep-toned organ, of the 
thousands who could kneel before the high altar; 
then, what marvelous relics were there to de- 
scribe ! — not to speak of the memorable valley i 
at Eschgau, where “ Siegfried slew the Dragon.” I 
Poor Hans 1 the scenes of his youth had made 


him young again, and it was the very triumph 
of his joy when he could interest Nelly in some 
story, or make her listen with attention to the 
rude verses of some “ Tyroler” poem. 

Gladly would we linger with them as they 
went slowly along through the deep valley of 
Landech, and, halting a day at the Pontlatzer- 
briicke, that Hans might describe the heroic 
defense of his countrymen against the French 
and Bavarian forces, and then, skirting along 
the Engadine, came in sight of the great Orteler 
Spitze — the highest of the Tyrol Alps. And 
now, they reach Nauders, and, traversing a wild 
and dreary mountain tract, where even in autumn 
the snow is seen in clefts and crevices of the 
rock, they gradually gain the crest of the ridge, 
and look down at length on glorious Meran with 
the devotion of the Pilgrim in sight of the Holy 
City. Hans knelt dow T n and prayed fervently as 
his eyes beheld that garden valley with its vine- 
clad slopes and waying woods ; its silvery river 
gliding along beneath villages and feudal castles. 
But soon he saw them no longer, for his eyes 
swam over in tears, and he sobbed like a child. 

“ There, Fraulein, yonder where you see the 
river winding to the south’ard, you see an old 
tower — ‘ the Passayer Thurm,’ it is called ; the 
Frau Mutter lives there. 1 see some one in the 
garden.” And, overcome by emotion, he hid 
his face and wept. 

Near as they seemed to the end of their jour- 
ney, it was night ere they gained the valley at 
the foot of the mountain. The cottages were 
closed, and, except in the town — still about a 
mile distant-^not a light was to be seen. The 
Tyrolers are an early race, and retire to rest 
soon after dusk. Hanserl, however, wanted no 
guidance to the way, and trudged along in front 
of the cart, following each winding of the track 
as though he had gone it but the day before. 
Except a chance caution about the road, he 
never spoke — his heart was full of “home.” 
The fatigue of a long day’s journey, and the 
cold of the night air, had made Andy querulous 
and discontented, and it was all Nelly could do 
to answer the fretful questions and soothe down 
the irritation of the old man ; but Plans heard 
nothing of either. At last they reached a little 
open space formed by a bend in the river, and 
came in sight of the old tower, at the foot of 
which, and abutting against it, stood a small cot- 
tage. A light gleamed from a little window, and 
no sooner had Hans seen it than he exclaimed, 

“ Gott sey dank ! Fraulein, she is well. That 
is the Frau Mutter.” 

Poor Nelly’s lip quivered as.she tried to speak, 
for, humble as it was, what would she have given 
to have had even such a “home?” And now, 
passing through a little garden, Hans halted, 
and assisted Andy from the cart. 

“ Where are we, at all ? sure this isn’t a place 
to stop the night in !” cried the old man queru- 
lously. 

“ llush, Andy, hush,” whispered Nelly. 

“’Tis thieves and vagabonds, maybe, lives 
here, Miss Nelly,” said he, in a low voice. 


296 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ No, Andy, no ; it is a kind welcome that 
awaits us.” 

“ Ayeh !” exclaimed he, “I know betther than 
that !” 

Hans by this time had approached the door, 
and raised the latch — for in the Tyrol the night 
rarely calls for other fastening. Nelly heard the 
sharp, clear sound of an old woman’s voice above 
the hum of a spinning wheel and then the glad 
burst of joy as the mother recognized her son. 

Unwilling to interrupt their happiness, Nelly 
moved away out of hearing, when Hanserl came 
running out followed by the old woman, 
j “This is the Fraulein, mother, cried he with 
a burst of delight ; and the old woman, taking 
Nelly’s hand, kissed it with deep respect. 

With native courtesy she welcomed Nelly, 
and, as she entered her house, pointed with pride 
to a Madonna of Nelly’s own carving, which 
stood on a bracket against the wall. 

“You see, Fraulein,” said she, “how I have 
known you for many a day back ; and there is 
your Saint Christopher, and there the ‘ Blessed 
Agnes at the Well.' ” And so was it. The 
groups and figures which she believed to have 
been sold by Hanserl,- were all stored up here 
and treasured like household gods. “ Many a 
traveler has come here just to see these,” con- 
tinued the old peasant woman, “ and many a 
tempting sum have they offered if I would sell 
them, but in all my poverty I did not stoop to 
this.” 

“Frau Mutter, Frau Mutter,” said Hans, re- 
bukingly, and trying to cut short what he feared 
might offend Nelly. 

“ Nay, Hanserl, it is but the truth,” said she, 
firmly, “I will not say that I did not do more 
wisely too, for they who came left me always 
some little present. Even the poor gave me 
their blessing, and said that they were happier 
when they had prayed before the Blessed Agnes.” 
While thus running on in all the garrulity of old 
age, she never neglected the care of receiving 
her guests with suitable hospitality. Old Andy 
was accommodated with a deep straw chair near 
the stove. The little chamber, which, for its 
view upon the Passayer Thai, had been specially 
devoted to receive travelers, was got ready for 
Nelly, and Hans, once more at home, busied 
himself in arranging the household, and prepar- 
ing supper. 

“You are wondering at all the comforts you 
find here, Hanserl,” said the old woman, “ but 
see here, this will tell you whence they came,” 
and, opening an old ebony cabinet, she took out 
a large square letter with a heavy seal. “ That 
reached me on a Christmas-day, Hanserl ; the 
paper was from the Imperial ‘ Chancellerie’ of 
Vienna, setting forth that, as the widow of Hans 
Roeckle, of Meran, born of Tyrol parents, and 
married to a Tyroler, had attained the age of 
eighty years, and never asked alms, nor sought 
for other aid than her own industry, she was now 
entitled to the Maria Theresian pension of twelve 
kreutzers a day for the rest of her life. I told 
them,” said the old woman, proudly, “that my 


son had always taken care to provide ior me, 
and that there were others that might want it 
more than me, but the Kreis-Hauptmann said, 
that my refusal would be an offense to the 
1 Kaiser,’ who had heard of my name from one 
of the Archduchesses who traveled this way, 
and who had seen these blessed images, and 
wished to buy them ; so that I was fain to yield, 
and take, in thankfulness, what was offered in 
generosity. You see, Hanserl, how true is it, 
the Fraulein has been our good angel ; we have 
never had bad luck since the Madonna came 
here !” 

Nelly slept soundly that night, and, for the 
first time since her calamities, her dreams were 
happy ones. Lulled by the ripple of the river 
beside her window, and the ceaseless murmuring 
of the old woman’s voice as she sat up talking 
with her son the whole night long, she tasted, at 
length, the sweets of deep and refreshing sleep. 
And what a gorgeous scene burst upon her 
waking eyes ! Around, on every side of the little 
plain, rose the great mountains of the Tyrol; 
%gme, green and tree-clad to their summits, oth- 
ers, snow-capt or hid in the azure-colored clouds 
above them. Ancient castles crowned the crags, 
and foaming cataracts leaped from each fissured 
gorge; while below, in the valley, there lay a 
garden of rich profusion — the vine, the olive, 
and the waving corn — with villages and peas- 
ant-horfses half hid in the luxuriant verdure. 
From the lowing cattle beside the river to the 
re-echoing horn upon the mountains, there seem- 
ed to come greeting and answer. All was 
grandeur and sublimity in the scene ; but, more 
striking than these, was the perfect repose, the 
deep tranquillity of the picture. The sounds 
were all those of peasant labor, the song of the 
vine-dresser, the rustling noise of the loaded 
wagon as it moved through some narrow and 
leafy road, the hissing of the sickle through the 
ripe corn. 

“ And yet,” said Hanserl, as Nelly stood m 
silent enjoyment at the little porch, “ and yet, 
Fraulein, beyond those great mountains yonder, 
there is strife and carnage'. Here, all is peace- 
ful and happy ; but the whole world of Europe 
is tempest-torn. Italy is up — all her people are 
in wild revolt. Hungary is in open insurrection. 
I speak not of other lands, whose fortunes affect 
us not, but the great Empire of our Kaiser is 
convulsed to its very centre. I have just been 
at Meran, troops are marching in, every hour, 
and every hour come new messengers* to bid 
them hasten southard. Over the Stelvio, where 
you see that dark line yonder, near the summit 
of the mountains, on they pour ! They say, 
too, that Upper Austria is in rebellion, and that 
the roads from Innspruck are unsafe to travel. 
We are safe here, Fraulein, but you must not 
venture further. We will try, from some of 
the officers who pass through to glean tidings of 
the count, your Grand Uncle, and where a let- 
ter may reach him ; but bear with this humble 
shelter for a while, and think it a home.” 

If Nelly was disappointed and baffled by this 


297 


* . * * * 

THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


impediment to her journey, she was not one to 
pass her time in vague regrets, but at once ad- 
dressed herself to the call of new duties, with a 
willing mind and a cheerful spirit. 

Resuming her long neglected tools, she set to 
work once more, stimulated by the new scenes 
and subjects around her. To the little children 
who often formed her “studies,” she became 
the schoolmistress. To the old who were 
stricken with sickness, or the helplessness of 
age, she used to read for hours together. Every 
little pathway led her to some office of charity 
or kindness, till the “good Fraulein” became a 
village by-word, and her name was treasured, 
and her footstep welcomed in every cottage 
around. 

Her humble dress, her more humble manner, 
took nothing from the deference they yielded 
her. They felt too intensely the inborn superi- 
ority of her nature, to think of any equality be- 
tween them, and they venerated her with some- 
thing like devotion. A physician to the sick — 
a nurse to the bed-ridden — a teacher to the igno- 
rant — a blessing and an example to all, Nelly’s 

■ ' } i •/ • * ^ • ‘ * - 

•* • • ' r J \ » * > . j 

_ J , J f ’• f V ,4f ft. ’ 







hours were but too short for the calls of her 
duties, and in her care for others, she had no 
time to bestow on her own sorrows. 

As for Hanserl, he worked from daylight till 
dusk. Already the little garden, weed-grown 
and uncared-for, before, was as blooming as his 
former one at the Alten Schloss. Under Nelly’s 
guidance many a device was executed, that 
seemed almost miraculous to the simple neigh- 
bors ; and the lichen-clad rocks, the waving 
water-lilies or trellised creepers, which, in the 
wild wontonness of nature, they had never no- 
ticed, now struck them as the very creations of 
genius. Even old Andy was not forgotten in 
their schemes of happiness ; and the old hunts- 
man used to spend hours in the effort to tame a 
young fox a peasant had brought him — a labor 
not the less interesting, that its progress suffer- 
ed many a check, and that many a laugh arose 
at the backslidings of the pupil. 

And now, we leave them for a brief season, 
all occupied and all happy ; nor do we like the 
Fate that calls us away to other and verv differ- 
ent associates. 

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V 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

^ ’ , 

“ FLORENCE.” 


It was of a calm but starless night in winter 
that Florence was illuminated in honor of a 
victory over the Austrian troops at Goito. Never 
was patriotic ardor higher — never were stronger 
the hopes of Italian independence. From the 
hour of their retreat from Milan, the Imperial 
forces had met with little but reverses, and, as 
day by day they fell back toward the Tyrol Alps, 
the hosts of their enemies swelled and increased 
around them ; and from Genoa to the Adriatic, 
all Italy was in march to battle. It is not to 
speculate on the passable current of events, nor 
yet to dwell on the causes of that memorable 
failure, by which dissentient councils and false 
faith — the weakness of good men, and the ambi- 
tion of bad ones — brought ruin when there might 
have, been victory. Still less is it to gaze upon 
the brilliant spectacle of the rejoicing city, that 
we are now wending our way along the Arno, 
scarcely stopping to notice the thousand stars 
that glitter on the Duomo, nor the flickering 
lines of light which trace out the gigantic tower 
of the Palazzo Yecchio. Our theme is more 
humble than the former, and far too serious for 
such dalliance as the latter. 

Leaving the crowded streets, resounding with 
the wild acclamations and wilder songs of the 
people, we pass over the Ponte Yecchio, and 
enter once again the dark abode of Racca Mor- 
lache. Whether from any suspicion of his un- 
popularity with the people, or from some secret 
necessity for precaution, the door is fastened by 
many an extra bolt, and more than one massive 
chain retains the iron shutters of the window. 
Perhaps there is something in this Conscious se- 
curity that has made him so sparing in his dis- 
play of external joy, for two dim, discolored 
lamps were all that appeared above the door, 
and these were soon hurled down in contemptu- 
ous anger by the populace, leaving the little 
building in total darkness. 

In easy indifference to such harmless insult, 
and not heeding the loud knock which, from 
stick or stone, the iron shutters resounded under, 
the Jew sat at his table in that little chamber 
beside the Arno, of which the reader already 
knows the secret. Several decanters of wine are 
before him, and as he sips his glass and smashes 
his filbert, his air is that of the very easiest un- 
concern. 

Attempting, but with inferior success, an 
equal degree of calm, sits the Abbe d’Esmonde on 
the opposite side of the table. With all his 
training, his calm features betray, at moments, 


certain signs of anxiety, and while he speaks, 
you can see that he is listening to to the noises 
in the street without. 

“ How I detest that song !” said Morlache, 
as the full swell of a deep-voiced chorus filled 
the air. “ I verily believe the Revolution has 
not inflicted us with any thing more outrag- 
ing to good taste than the air of ‘Yiva Pio 
Nono.’ ” 

“ Always excepting Pio Nono himself,” said 
D'Esmonde, “who is far more the child than 
the father of this movement.” 

“ Not bad for a priest to renounce allegiance 
to his Holy Master !” said Racca, laughing. 

“You mistake me, Signor Morlache,” said 
D'Esmonde, eagerly. “ I spoke of Pio Nono, 
the politician — the rash innovator of time-hon- 
ored institutions — the foolish donor of concess- 
ions, that must be won back at the price of blood 
— the man who has been weak enough to head 
a movement, which he ought to have controlled, 
in secret. How the people shout ! I hear many 
a voice in accents of no Italian origin.” 

“Yes, the city is full of Poles and Hunga- 
rians.” 

“It will soon be time to drop the curtain on 
this act of the drama, Morlache ; enough has 
been done to show the world the dangerous doc- 
trines of these fanatics. They who cry, ‘ No 
Property in France” shout ‘No King in Ger- 
many’ — ‘ No Pope in Rome.’ The peaceful and 
well-ordered must be taught to see in us their 
safeguard against these men. They must learn 
to think the Church the sanctuary it. was of old. 
From all these convulsions which shatter em- 
pires, we are the refuge !” 

“ But you j'ourself gave the first impulse to 
this very movement, Abbe?” 

“ And wisely and well we did it ! Should we 
have stood passive to watch the gradual growth of 
that cursed spirit they miscall independent judg- 
ment — that rankest iteresy that ever corrupted 
the human heart? Should we have waited till 
Protestantism with its Bible had sowed the seeds 
of that right of judgment., which they proclaim is 
inherent in all men? Would it have been safe 
policy to admit of discussing what was obliga- 
tor) 7 to obey, and look on while this enlighten- 
ment — as they blasphemously term it — was ar- 
raigning the dogma of the Church as unblushing- 
ly as they questioned the decree of a minister ?” 

“I perceive,” said the Jew laughing, “you 
greq,t politician^ are not above taking a lesson 
from the ‘ Bourse,’ and know the trick of puffing 


299 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


up a bad scheme to a high premium, prepared 
to sell out the day before ‘the fall.’ ” 

“We had higher and nobler views,” said 
D’Esmonde, proudly. “ The men who will not 
come to the altars of the Church, must be taught 
her doctrines before the portals. Our task is to 
proclaim Rome — Eternal Rome — to Europe !” 

“ Up to this, your success has not been sig- 
nal,'’ said Morlache, with a sneer. “ This vic- 
tory at Goito has given fresh vigor to the Re- 
publicans. The Austrians, once driven beyond 
the Alpi, Monarchy will be short-lived in Italy.” 

“ And who says that they will be so driven ? 
"Who even dreams of such a result, save some 
wild fanatic of Genoa, or some half- Fn formed 
minister at London? The King of Naples only 
waits 1 for the excuse of a Calabrian disturbance 
to recall his contingent. The Pope has already 
issued an order to Durando not to pass the Po. 
The Piedmontese themselves are on the verge of 
an irreparable quarrel. The men of Savoy and 
the north, for Monarchy, The Genoese wild 
with their own ancient ideas of a Ligurian Re- 
public. Is it the Lombards, think you, will 
conquer Lombardy ? or do you fancy that Flor- 
ence and Pisa are the nurseries of heroes ? No, 
Morlache, the game of revolt is played out in 
Italy; the last trump is Goito.” 

“Rut if flushed with conquest, the Piedmontese 
press on to greater successes?” 

“ They can not — they would not — even if they 
could,” broke in D’Esmonde. “Is it the Re- 
publicans will shed their blood, to conquer a 
kingdom of Upper Italy for Carlo Alberto ? Is 
it the interest of Rome or Naples to see such a 
power in the Peninsula ? Will the troops of the 
Monarchy, on the other hand, fight for a cause 
that is to obliterate the Throne ? No ! believe 
me, their mutual grudge’s have been well weigh- 
ed and estimated. We never dared this bold 
policy without seeing clearly that their interests 
could never be reconciled ! I think I hear the 
sound of oars ; yes, he must be coming at last?” 
D’Esmonde opened the window as he spoke, 
and looked out upon the river, which reflecting 
along the sides the gorgeous pageantry of the 
illumination was dark as ink in the middle of the 
stream. “Not a word of this, Morlache, when 
he joins us,” added D’Esmonde. 

“ He is not in your confidence, then?” asked 
the other. 

“ He ! of course lie is not ! If for no weight- 
ier reasons than that he is English and a Prot- 
estant. Two things which, however weak they 
may prove either in patriotism or religion, never 
fail in their hatred of the Church and her cause. 
Like one of the Condottieri of old, he has joined 
the quarrel, because hard knocks are usually 
associated with booty. Whenever he finds that 
he has no stake on the table, he’ll throw down 
his cards.” 

“ And the other, the Russian ?” 

“ He is more difficult to understand ; but I 
hope to know him yet. Hush, the boat is close in, 
be cautious !” And so saying, he filled his glass, 
and reseated himself in all the seeming ease of 


careless. dalliance. In a few minutes after, the 
prow of a light skiff touched the terrace, and a 
man stepped out and knocked at the shutter. 

“ Welcome at last,” said D’Esmonde, shaking 
hands with him. “ We had almost despaired of 
seeing you to-night. You appear to have been 
favored with a long audience !” 

“ Yes, confound it !” cried the other, who, 
throwing off his traveling-cloak, showed the 
figure of Lord Norwood. “ We were kept 
dangling in an ante-chamber for nigh an hour. 
Midchikoff’s fault, for he would not give his 
name,' nor say any thing more than that wo 
were two officers with secret dispatches from 
the camp. The people in waiting appeared to 
think the claim a poor one, and came and went, 
and looked at us, splashedand dirty as we were ; 
but not, even out of curiosity, did one ask us 
what tidings we brought. We might have 
Staid till now, I believe, if I had not taken the 
resolution to follow an old priest — a bishop, I 
fancy — who seemed to have the entree every 
where, and pushing vigorously after him, I passed 
through half-a-dozen ill-lighted rooms, and at 
lasf entered a small drawing-room, where the 
great man was seated at picquet with old Cas- 
sandroni, the minister. I must say, that con- 
sidering the unauthorized style of my approach, 
nothing could be more well-bred and urbane 
than his recejition of me. I was blundering 
out some kind of apology for my appearance, 
when he pointed to a chair, and begged me to 
be seated. Then, recognizing, Midchikoff. who 
had just come in, he held out his. hand to him. 
I gave him the dispatches, which he pushed 
across the table to Cassandroni, as if it were 
more his ‘ afTair,’ and then turning to Midchikoff, 
conversed with him for some time in a low voice. 
As it would not have been etiquette to observe 
him too closely, I kept my eyes on the minister, 
and faith, I must say,, that he could scarcely have 
looked more blank and out of sorts, had the news 
reported a defeat. I suppose these fellows have 
a kind of official reserve, which represses every 
show of feeling; but I own that he folded up 
the paper with a degree of composure that quite 
piqued me ! 

“‘Well, Cassandroni,’ said his master, ‘what’s 
your news ?’ 

■‘)‘ Very good news, sir,’ said the other, calmly. 
‘ His Majesty has obtained a signal victory near 
Goito against a considerable force of the Impe- 
rial army, under the command of Radetzky. 
The action was long and fiercely contested, but 
a successful advance of artillery to the side of a 
river, and a most intrepid series of cavalry char- 
ges, turned the flank of the enemy, and gained 
the day. The results do not, however, appear 
equal to the moral effect upon the army, for 
there were few prisoners and no guns taken.’ 

“‘That may perhaps be explained,’ said I, 
interrupting; ‘for when the Austrians com- 
menced their movement in retreat — .“ Just as 
I got thus far, I stopped, for I found that the 
distinguished personage I was addressing had 
once more turned to Midchikoff, and was ia 


soo 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


deep conversation with him, totally regardless of 
me and my explanation. 

“‘You have been wounded, my lord?’ said 
he, after a moment. 

“‘A mere scratch, sir — a poke of a lance,’ 
said I, smarting under the cool indifference of 
his manner. 

“ ‘ I hope you’re not too much fatigued to 
stop to supper,’ said he, £ but I arose at the in- 
stant, and pleading the excuse of exhaustion and 
want of rest, begged to be permitted to retire, 
and here I am, not having tasted any thing since 
I left Padua, and not in the very blandest of 
tempers either at the graciousness of my recep- 
tion. As for Midchikoff, he kept his seat as 
coolly as if he meant to pass his life there ; I hes- 
itated for a second or two, expecting that he 
w T ould join me ; but not a bit of it, he smiled his 
little quiet smile, as much as to say, ‘ Good 
night,’ and so I left him.” 

“ He is probably detained to give some par- 
ticulars of the engagement,” said D’Esmonde. 

“ How can he ? — lie was never in it ; he was 
writing letters all day at Head Quarters, and 
never came up till seven in the evening, w T hen 
he rode down With a smart groom after him, and 
gave the Duke of Savoy a sandwich out of a 
silver case. That will be the only memorable 
fact he can retail of the day’s fortune.” 

“ The cause looks well, however,” said D’Es- 
monde, endeavoring to divert his thoughts into a 
more agreeable direction. 

“ Tell me what is the cause, and I will an- 
swer you,” said Norwood, sternly. “ So far as 
I see, we are dividing the spoils before we have 
hunted down the game.” 

“ You surely have no doubt of the result, my 
lord?” replied the other, eagerly. “The Aus- 
trians must relinquish Italy.” 

“ Then who is to take it — that’s the question? 
Is Lombard} 7 to become Piedmont, or a Red 
Republic? or are your brethren of the slouched 
hat to step in and portion out the land into snug 
nurseries for Franciscans and Ursulines ! Egad, 
I’d as soon give it up to old Morlache yonder, 
and make it a New Jerusalem to educate a 
young race of money-lenders and usurers !” 

“ I wish we had even as much security for our 
loans,” said Morlache, smiling. 

“I hear of nothing but money — great loans 
here — immense sums raised there,” cried Nor- 
wood ; “ and yet what becomes of it ? The army 
certainly has seen none of it. Large arrears of 
pay are due ; and, as for us who serve on the 
staff, we are actually supporting the very force 
we command.” 

“ We are told that large sums have found 
their way into Austria in shape of secret service,” 
said D’Esmonde, “and with good result too.” 

“ The very worst of bad policy,” broke in 
Norwood. “Pay your friends and" thrash your 
enemies. Deserters are bad allies at the best, 
but are utterly worthless if they must be paid 
for desertion. Let them go over like those Hun- 
garian fellows — a whole regiment at a time, and 
bring both courage and discipline to our ranks ! 


but your rabble of student sympathizers are good 
for nothing.” 

“ Success has not made you sanguine, my 
lord,” said Morlache, smiling. 

“ I have little to be sanguine about,” replied 
he, roughly. “ They have not spoiled me with 
good fortune, and even on this very mission that 
I have come now, you’ll see it is that Russian 
fellow will receive all the rew r ard ; and if there 
be a decoration conferred, it is he, not I, will 
obtain it.” 

“ And do you care for such baubles, my lord ?” 
asked D’Esmonde, in affected suprise. 

“ We soldiers like these vanities as women do 
a new shawl, or your priests admire a smart 
new vestment, in which 1 have seen a fellow 
strut as proudly as any coxcomb in the ballet 
when he had completed his pirouette. As for 
myself,” continued he x proudly, “I hold these 
stars and crosses cheaply enough. I’d mort- 
gage my ‘ San Giuseppe’ to-morrow if Morlache 
would give me twenty Naps on it.” 

“The day of richer rewards is not distant, 
my lord,” said D’Esmonde, “Lombardy will 
be our own ere the autumn closes, and then — 
and then — ” J 

“ And then we’ll cut each other’s throats for the 
booty, you were going to say,” burst in Norwood ; 
“but I’m not one of those who think so, abbe. 
My notion is, that Austria is making a waiting 
race, and quietly leaving dissension to do among 
us , what the snow did for the French at Mos- 
cow.” ' < 

D’Esmonde’s cheek grew pale at this shrewd 
surmise, but he quickly said, 

“ You mistake them, my lord. The interests 
at stake are too heavy for such a critical policy ; 
Austria dare not risk so hazardous a game.” 

“ The wise heads are beginning to suspect as 
much,” said Norwood, “ and certainly amonjr 
the prisoners we have taken there is not a trait 
of despondency, nor even a doubt as to the re- 
sult of the campaign. The invariable reply to 
every question is, the Kaiser will have his own 
again — ay, and this even from the Hungarians. 
W e captured a young fellow' on the afternoon of 
Goito, w T ho had escaped from prison, and actually 
broke his arrest to take his share in the battle. 
He w r as in what Austrians call Stockhaus arrest, 
and under sentence either of death or imprison- 
ment for life, for treason. Well, he got. out 
somehow', and followed his regiment on foot till 
such time as one of his comrades w*as knocked 
over, then he mounted, and I promise you that he 
knew his work in the saddle. Twice he charged 
a half battery of twelves, and sabred our gun- 
ners wdiere they stood ; and when at last, w’e 
pushed the Austrian column across the bridge, 
instead of retreating, as he might, he trusted to 
saving himself by the river. It was then his 
horse was shot under him, as he descended the 
bank, and over they both rolled into the stream. 
I assure you it w'as no easy matter to capture 
him even then, and we took him under a shower 
of balls from his comrades, that showed how- 
little his life was deemed, in comparison with, 


301 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the opportunity of damaging us. When he 
was brought in, he was a pitiable object ; his 
forehead was laid open from a sabre cut, his 
collar bone and left arm broken by the fall, and 
a gunshot wound in the thigh, which the sur- 
geon affirmed had every appearance of being 
received early in the action. He wouldn’t tell 
us his name, or any thing about his friends, for 
we wished to have written to them; the only 
words he ever uttered were a faint attempt at 
* Hurrah for the Emperor.’ ” 

“ And this a Hungarian ?” said D’Esmonde* 
in surprise. 

“He might have been a Pole, or a Wallach, 
for any thing I know ; but he was a hussar, and 
as gallant a fellow as ever I saw.” 

“ What was the uniform, my lord ?” saked 
the abbe, , < 

“ Light blue with a green sehako — they call 
them the regiment of Prince Paul of Wirtem- 
berg.” 

“ Tell me his probable age, my lord ; and 
something of his appearance generally,” said 
D’Esmonde, with increasing earnestness. 

“ His age, I should guess, to be two or three- 
and -twenty — not more certainly, and possibly 
even less than that. In height he is taller than 
me, but slighter. As to face, even with all his 
scars and bruises, he looked a handsome fellow, 
and had a clear blue eye that might have become 

an Englishman-” 

“You did not hear him speak?” asked the 
priest, with heightening curiosity. 

“ Except the few words I have mentioned, he 
never uttered a syllable. We learned that he 
had broken his arrest from one of his comrades ; 
but the fellow, seeing our anxiety to hear more, 
immediately grew reserved, and would tell us 
nothing. 1 merely allude to the circumstance 
to show that the disaffection we trust to among 
the Hungarians is not universal; and even when 
they falter in their allegiance to the State, by 
some strange contradiction they preserve their 
loyalty to the 4 Kaiser.’ ” ^ . 

“ I wish I could learn more about your pris- 
oner, my lord,” said the abbe, thoughtfully. 
“The story has interested me deeply.” 

“ Midchikoffcan, perhaps, tell you something, 
then ; for he saw him later than I did. He 
accompanied the Duke of Genoa in an inspection 
of the prisoners just before we left the camp.” 

“ And you say that he had a fair and Saxon- 
looking face?” said the abbe. 

“•Faith, I’ve told you all that I know of him,” 
said Norwood, impatiently. “ He was a brave 
soldier, and with ten thousand like him on our 
side, I’d feel far more at my ease, for the result 
of this campaign, than with the aid of those 
splendid squadrons they call the 4 Speranza 
d’ltalia.’ ” 

44 And the Crociati, my lord, what are they 
like ?” said Morlache, smiling. 

44 A horde of robbers, a set of cowardly rascals, 
who have only courage for cruelty — the out- 
pourings of jails and offcasts of convents — de- 
graded friars and escaped galley slaves.” 


“My lord, my lord !” interrupted Morlache, 
suppressing his laughter with difficulty, and en- 
joying to the full this torrent of indignant anger. 
“You are surely not describing faithfully the 
soldiers of the Pope — the warriors whose ban- 
ners have been blessed by the Ploly Father?” 

“ Ask their general, Ferrari, whom they have 
three times attempted to murder. Ask him 
their character” said Norwood, passionately, 
“if D’Esmonde himself will not tell you.” 

44 Plas it not been the same in every land that 
ever struck a blow for liberty ?” said the abbe. 
“Is it the statesman or the philosopher who have 
racked their brains and wasted the faculties in 
thought for the good of their fellow-men, that 
have gone forth to battle ? or is it not rather the 
host of unquiet spirits who infest every country, 
and who seek in change the prosperity that 
others pursue in patient industry. Some are 
enthusiastic for freedom — some seek a field of 
personal distinction — some are mere freeboot- 
ers ; but whatever they be, the cause remains 
the same.” ^ ^ 

44 You may be right, for all I know — you are 
right,” said Norwood, doggedly: but for my 
own part I have no fancy to fight shoulder to 
shoulder with cut-throats and housebreakers, 
even though the Church should have hallowed 
them with its blessing.” Norwood arose as he 
said this, and walked impatiently up and down 
the chamber. 

44 When do you purpose to return to the army, 
my lord?” said D’Esmonde after a pause. 

44 I’m not sure — I don’t even know if I shall 
return at all!” said Norwood, hastily. “I see 
little profit and less glory in the service ! What 
say you, Morlache ! Have they the kind of 
credit you would like to accept for a loan?” 

“No, my lord,” said the Jew, laughing; 
44 Lombardy scrip would stand low in our mark- 
et. 'I’d rather advance my moneys on the faith 
of your good friend, the Lady Hester Onslow.” 

Norwood bit his lip and colored, but made no 
reply. 

44 She has crossed into Switzerland, has she 
not?” asked D’Esmonde, carelessly. 

“Gone to England!” said the viscount, 
briefly. 

44 When — how? I never heard of that,” said 
the abbe. 44 1 have put off writing to her from 
day to day, never suspecting that she was about 
to quit the Continent.” 

44 Nor did she herself, till about a week ago, 
when Sir Stafford took an equally unexpected 
departure for the other world — ” 

44 Sir Stafford dead — Lady Hester a widow ?” 

“ Such is, I believe, the natural course of 
things for a woman to be, when her husband 
dies.” 

44 A rich widow, too, I presume, my lord,” 
said the abbe, with a quiet but subtle glance at 
Norwood. 

44 That is more than she knows herself, at this 
moment, I fancy, for they say that Sir Stafford 
has involved his bequests with so many difficul- 
ties, and hampered them with such a mass of 


302 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


conditions, that whether she will be a million- 
aire , or be actually poor, must depend upon the 
future. I can answer for one point, however, 
abbe,” said he sarcastically; “neither the sa- 
cred college, nor the blessed brethren of the 
‘Pace,’ are like to profit by the banker’s econ- 
omies.” 

“ Indeed, my lord,” said the abbe, slowly, 
while a sickly palor came over his countenance. 

“ He has left a certain Doctor Grounsell his 
executor,” continued Norwood; “and from all 
that I can learn, no man has less taste for paint- 
ed windows, stoles, or Saints’ shin-bones.” 

“ Probably, there may be 'other questions upon 
which he will prove equally obdurate,” said the 
abbe, in a voice only audible to the viscount. 
“'Is her ladyship at liberty to marry again?” 

“ I can not, I grieve to say, give you ahy in- 
formation on that point,” said Norwood, growing 
deep red as he spoke. 

“As your lordship is, going to England — ” 

“ I didn’t say so. I don’t remember that I 
told you, that !” cried he, hastily. 

“ Pardon me if I made such a palpable mis- 
take — but it ran in my head that you said some- 
thing to that purport.” 

“ It won’t do, abbe ! — it won’t do,” said Nor- 
wood, in a low whisper. “We who have grad- 
uated at the ‘ Red House,’ are just as wide awake 
as you of Louvain and St. Omer.” 

D’Esmonde looked at him with an expression 
of blank astonishment, and seemed as if he had 
not the most vague suspicion as to what the 
sarcasm referred. <- 

“ When can I have half-an-hour with you, 
Morlache?” said the viscount. 

“ Whenever it suits you, my lord. What say 
you to to-morrow morning at eleven ?” 

“No! no! let it be later, I must have a ten 
hours’ sleep after all this fatigue ; and the sooner 
I begin the better.” 

“ Where do you put up, my lord — at the Hotel 
de l’Arno?” asked the abbe. 

“ No ; I wish we were there, with all my 
heart ; but to do us honor, they have given us 
quarters at the ‘Crocetto,” that dreary asylum 
for stray archdukes and vagabond grand duch- 
esses, in the furthest end of the city. We are 
surrounded with chamberlains, aid-de-camps, 
and guards of honor. The only thing they have 
forgotten is a cook ! So I’ll come and dine 
here to-morrow.” 

“ You do me great honor, my lord. I’m sure, 
the Abbe D’Esmonde will favor us with his 
company, also.” 

“If it be possible, I will,” said the abbe. 
“ Nothing but necessity would make me relin- 
quish so agreeable a prospect.” 

“Well, till our next meeting,” said the vis- 
count,, yawning, as he put on his hat. “ It’s too 
late to expect Midchikoff here tO-night, and so 
good-by. The streets are clear by this time, I 
trust.”' 

“A shrewd fellow too,” said Morlache, look- 
ing after him. > ■ ' 

“No! Morlache, not a bit of it!” said D’Es- 


monde. “ Such intellects bear about the same 
proportion to really clever men, as a good swords- 
man does to a first-rate operator in surgery. 
They handle a coarse weapon, and they deal 
with coarse antagonists. Employ them in a 
subtle negotiation, or a knotty problem, and you 
might as well ask a sergeant of the Blues to 
take up the femoral artery. Did you not remark 
awhile ago, that for the sake of a sneer he ac- 
tually betrayed a secret about Sir Stafford On- 
slow’s will ?” 

“And you believe all that to be true?” 

“ Of course I do. The only question is, 
whether the Irish property, which, if I remember 
aright, was settled on Lady Hester at her mar- 
riage, can be fettered by any of these conditions ? 
That alone amounts to some thousands a year, 
and would be a most grateful accession to those 
much-despised brethren his lordship alluded to.” 

“ You can learn something about that point 
to-morrow when he dines here.” 

“ He’ll not be your guest to-morrow, Mor- 
lache. I must continue to occupy him for a day 
or two. He shall be invited to dine at court to- 
morrow — the request is a command — so that you 
will not see him. Receive Midchikoff if he calls, 
for I want to hear what he is about here — his 
money requirements will soon give us the clew 
— and I, too,” said he, stretching and speaking 
languidly, “I, too, would be the. better of some 
repose ; it is now thirty-six hours, Morlache, 
since I closed my eyes in sleep — during that 
space I have written, and dictated, and talked, 
and argued, urging on the lukewarm, restrain- 
ing the rash, giving confidence to this one, 
preaching caution to that, and here I am, at 
the end of'all, with my task as far as ever from 
completion. Events march faster than we, do 
what we will ! and as the child never comes up 
with the hoop he has set in motion, till it has 
fallen, so we rarely overtake the circumstances 
we have created till they have ceased to be of 
any value to us. Now, at this precise moment 
1 want to "be in the Vatican, at the camp of 
Goito— in the council-chamber at Schonbrunn — 
not to speak of a certain humble homestead in a 
far-away Irish county — and yet I have nothing 
for it but to go quietly off to bed, leaving to for- 
tune — I believe that is as good a name for it as 
any other— the course of events, which, were I 
present, I could direct at will. Napoleon left a 
great example behind him ; he beat his enemies 
always by rapidity. Believe me, Morlache, 
men think pretty much upon a par in this same 
world of ours ; the great difference being, that 
some take five minutes where others take five 
weeks — the man of minutes js, sure to win.” 

Just as the abbe had spoken, Norwood re- 
turned, saying : 

“By the way, can either of you tell me if 
Jekyl be here now?” 

“ I have not seen him,” said Morlache, “ which 
is almost proof that he is not. His, first visit is 
usually to me.” 

The Streets were silent; a few stray lamps 
vet flickered over the spacious cupola of the 


303 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Duomo, and a broken line of light faintly tracked 
one angle ot the tower of the Piazza Vecchia; 
I)ut except these last lingering signs of the late 
rejoicings, all Florence lay in darkness. 

L ‘ Plow quiet is every thing,” said Morlache, 
as he took leave of his guests at his door. “ The 
streets are empty already.” 

l 'A)Y' muttered the abbe, “The rejoicing, 
like the victory, was but short-lived. Do our 
roads lie the same way, my lord?” asked he of 
Norwood. 

“Very seldom, I suspect,” replied the vis- 
count, with a laugh. “ Mine is in this direction.” 

“And mine lies this way,” said D’Esmonde, 
bowing, c6ldly but courteously, as he passed on, 
and entered the narrow street beyond the bridge. 
“ You are quite right, my lord, muttered he to 
himself. Our paths in life are very different. 
Yours may be wider and pleasanter, but mine , 
with all its turnings, goes straighter.” He 
paused and listened for some seconds, till Nor- 
wood's steps had died away in the distance, and 
then turning back, he followed in the direction 
the other had taken. 

Norwood walked rapidly along till he came 
to that small house on the Arno, where Jekyl 
lived, and stopping in front of it, he threw a 
handful of sand against the window. To this 
signal, twice repeated, no reply was given to 
the viscount. He waited a few seconds, and 
then -moved on. The abbe stood under the 
shadow of the tall palaces till the other was out 
of sight, and then, approaching the door, gave 
a long low whistle. Within a few seconds the 
sash was opened, and Jekyl’s voice heard : 

“ It’s you, abbe. There’s the key. Will 
you excuse ceremony, and let yourself in ?” 

D’Esmonde opened the door at once, and 
mounting the stairs entered the little chamber 
in which now Jekyl stood in his dressing-gown 
and slippers, and although suddenly roused from 
sleep, with a smile of courteous welcome on his 
diminutive features. 

“ I paid no attention to your first signal, 
abbe,” said he, “scarcely thinking it could be 
you.’” 

“ Nor was it,” said D’Esmonde, seating him- 
self. “It was Lord Norwood, who doubtless 
must have had some important reason for dis- 
turbing you at this hour. I waited till he went 
off before I whistled. When did you arrive?” 

“ About three hours ago. I came from 
Lucerne, and was obliged to take such a zig-zag 
course, the roads being all blocked up by march- 
ing soldiers, guns, and wagons, that I have been 
eight days making the journey of three.” 

“So, Lady Hester is a widow! Strange, I 
only heard it an hour ago.” 

The post has been interrupted, or you would 
have known it a week back. I wrote to you 
front Zurich. I accompanied her so far on her 
way to England, and was to have gone the 
whole way, too, but she determined to send me 
back here.” 

“Not to settle her affairs in Florence,” said 
D'Esmonde, with a quiet slyness. 


“ Rather to look after Lord Norwood’s,” said 
Jekyl. “I never could exactly get to the bot- 
tom of the affair ; but I suppose there must be 
some pledge or promise, which in a rash mo- 
ment, she has made him, and that already she 
repents of.” 

“ How has she been left in the will?” asked 
D’Esmonde, abruptly. 

“ Her own words are, ‘ Infamously treated.’ 
Except a bequest of ten thousand pounds, no- 
thing beyond the Irish estate settled at the time 
of her marriage.” 

“ She will easily get rid of Norwood, then,” 
rejoined the abbe, with a smile. “ His price 
is higher.” 

“I’m not so sure of that,” broke in Jekyl ; “the 
noble viscount’s late speculations have all proved 
unfortunate — even to his book on Carlo Alberto. 
He thinks he has gone wrong in not hedging on 
Radetzky.” 

“ What does he know of the changes of poli- 
tics?” said D’Esmonde, contemptuously. “Let 
him stick to his stable-men and the crafty youths 
of Newmarket, but leave state affairs for other 
and very different capacities. Does she care for 
him, Jekyl? Does she love him?” 

“ She does, and she dobs not,” said Jekyl, 
with a languishing air, which he sometimes as- 
sumed when asked for an opinion. “ She likes 
his fashionable exterior, his easy kind of drawing- 
room assurance, and, perhaps not least of all, 
the tone of impertinent superiority he displays 
toward all other men ; but she is afraid of him 
— afraid of his temper and his tyrannical humor, 
and terribly afraid of his extravagance.” 

“ How amusing it is,” said D’Esmonde, with 
,a yawn. “A minister quits the Cabinet in 
disgust, and retires into private life forever, when 
his first step is to plot his return to power ; so 
your widow invariably is found weighing the 
thoughts of her mourning with speculations on 
a second husband. Why need she marry again ? 
tell me that.” 

“ Because she is a widow, perhaps. I know 
no other reason,” lisped out Jekyl. 

“ I can not conceive a greater folly than that 
of these women, with ample fortune, sacrificing 
their independence by marriage. The whole 
world is their own, if they but knew it. They 
command every source of enjoyment while young, 
and have all the stereotyped solaces of old age 
when it comes upon them ; and with poodles, 
parrots, and parasites, mornings of scandal, and 
evenings of whist, eke out a very pretty exist- 
ence.” ' 

“ Dash the whole with a little religion, abbe,” 
cried Jekyl, laughing, “ and the picture will be 
tolerably correct.” ' 

“ She shall not marry Lord Norwood ; that, 
at least, I can answer for,” said D’Esmonde, 
not heeding the other. 

“ It will be difficult to prevent it, abbe,” said 
the other, dryly., 

“ Easier than you think for. Como, Master 
Jekyl, assume a serious mood for once, and pay 
attention to what I am about to say. This line 


304 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


of life you lead can not go on forever. Even 
were your owr. great gifts to resist time and its 
influences, a new generation will spring up with 
other wants and requirements, and another race 
will come who knew not Joseph. With all 
your versatility, it will be late to study new 
models, and acquire a new tongue. Have you 
speculated, then, I ask you, on this contingency ?” 

“ I’ve some thoughts of a ‘ Monkery,’ ” lisped 
out Jekyl ; “ if the good folk could only be per- 
suaded to adopt a little cleanliness.” 

“ Would not marriage suit you better; a rich 
widow — titled, well connected and good-looking 
— of fashionable habits, and tastes that resemble 
your own?” 

“ There are difficulties in the case,” said 
Jekyl, calmly. 

“ State them,” rejoined the abbe. 

“ To begin. There is Lady Hester herself — 
for of course, you mean her.” 

“I engage to solve all on that head.” 

“ Then there is the viscount.” 

“ For him, too, I hold myself responsible.” 

“ Lastly, there is Albert Jekyl, who, however 
admirably he understands gar^on life, might 
discover that the husband was not among the 
range of his characters. As it is, my dear abbe, 
I lead a very pretty existence. I am neither 
bored nor tormented, I never quarrel with any 
body, nor is the rudest man ever discourteous to 
me. I possess nothing that any one envies, ex- 
cept that heaven-born disposition to be pleased, 
of which nothing can rob me. I dine well, drive 
in rich equipages, and. if I liked, might ride 
the best horses; have at least a dozen opera- 
boxes ready to receive me, and sweeter smiles 
to welcome me than would become me to boast 
of.” 

“ Well, then, my proposal is, to give you all 
these on a life interest, instead of being a tenant- 
at-will,” broke in D’Esmonde. 

“ And all this out of pure regard for me ?” 
asked Jekyl. with a sly look. 

“ As a pure matter of bargain,” replied D’Es- 
monde. “ Lady Hester has advanced large sums 
to the cause in which I am interested. It would 


) . 


) • • • \ 


be difficult, perhaps impossible, to repay them. 
We still want means, and that ten thousand 
pounds legacy would render us immense service 
at this moment. Her income can well spare 
the sacrifice.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Jekyl, musingly ; and then 
looking fondly at his own image in the glass, 
he said, “ I shall be a dead bargain after all.” 

D’Esmonde bit his lip to repress some move- 
ment of impatience, and after a pause said, 

“ This matter does not admit of delay. Cir- 
cumstances will soon require my presence in 
England, and with a strong sum at my com- 
mand ; besides — ” 

“ If I understand you aright,” said Jekyl, “you 
are to conduct the whole negotiations to a suc- 
cessful end, and that I shall have neither a bill 
to indorse, nor a duel to fight throughout the 
affair.” 

“You shall be scathless.” 

“ There is another point,” said Jekyl, quickly. 
“ How shall I figure in the newspapers — Albert 
Jekyl, Esquire, of where ? Have you thought 
of that? I wish I had even an uncle a baronet?” 

“Pooh, pooh!” said D’Esmonde, impatiently. 
“You marry into the peerage — that’s quite 
enough.” 

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Jekyl. “All 
that enumeration of family connection — -‘niece 
to the Chief Justice of Bembouk’ — ‘or cousin- 
german to the Vice-Consul at Gundalloo — 
smacks terribly of ‘ Moses and Son.’ ” 

“ We are agreed, then ?” said the abbe rising. 

“I swear,” said Jekyl, rising and throwing 
out his hand in the attitude of the well-known 
picture of the “ Marshals.” “ The step that I 
am about to take will throw its gloom over 
many a dinner-party, and bring sadness into 
many a salon ; but I’ll retire at least with dig- 
nity, and, like Napoleon, I’ll write my memoirs.” 

“ So far, then, so good,” said D’Esmonde ; 
“now, with your leave, I’ll throw myself on this 
sofa and snatch an hour's sleep.” And ere 
Jekyl had arranged the folds of what he called 
his sable pelesse , as a covering, the abbe was in 
deep slumber. 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

PRIESTCRAFT. 


With less than two hours of sleep, D’Esmonde 
arose refreshed and ready for the day. Jekyl was 
not awake as the priest quitted his quarters, and, 
repairing to his own lodgings, dressed himself 
with more than usual care. Without any of the 
foppery of the abbe, there was a studied ele- 
gance in every detail of his costume, and, as he 
stepped into the carriage which awaited him, 
many turned their looks of admiration at the 
handsome priest. - , ' 

“To the Crocetto,” said he, and away they 
went. - „ 

It was already so early, that few persons were 
about, as they drove into the court of the pal- 
ace, and drew up at a private door. Here 
D’Esmonde got out and ascended the stairs. 

“ Ah, monsignore !” said a young man, some- 
what smartly attired in a dressing-gown and 
/civet cap. “ He did not return here last night.” 

‘ Indeed !” said the abbe, pondering. 

“ He dismissed the carriage at the Pitti, so 
that in all likelihood he passed the night at the 
palace.” * 

“ Most probably,” said D’Esmonde, with a 
bland smile ; and then, with a courteous “ Good- 
morning,” he returned to his carriage. 

“Where to, signore?” asked the driver. 

“ Toward the Duomo,” said he. But scarcely 
had the man turned the second corner, than he 
said, “ To the ‘ Moscova,’ Prince Midchikoff’s 
villa.” 

“ We’re turning our back to it, signore. It’s 
on the hill of Fiesole.” > 

D’Esmonde nodded, but said no more. Al- 
though scarcely a league from the city, the way 
occupied a considerable time, being one contin- 
ued and steep ascent. The abbe was, however, 
too deeply engaged with his own thoughts to 
bestow attention on the pace they journeyed, or 
the scene around. He was far irom being in- 
sensible to the influence of the picturesque or 
the beautiful ; but now other and weightier con- 
siderations completely engrossed his mind, nor 
was he aware how the moments passed till the 
carriage came to a stop. 

“The prince is absent, sir, in Lombardy,” 
said a gruflf-looking porter from within the gate. 

D’Esmonde descended, and whispered some 
words between the bars. 

“ But my orders — my orders !” said the man, 
in a tone of deference. 

“They would be peremptory against any 
other than me,” said D’Esmonde, calmly j and, 
U 


after a few seconds’ pause, the man unlooked 
the gate, and the carriage passed in. 

“ To the back entrance,” called out D’Es- 
monde. And they drove into a spacious court- 
yard, where a number of men were engaged in 
washing carriages, cleaning horses, and all the 
other duties of the stable. One large and cum- 
brous vehicle, loaded with all the varied “acces- 
sories” of the road, and fortified by many a pre- 
caution against the accidents of the way, stood 
prominent. It was covered with stains and 
splashes, and bore unmistakable evidence of a 
long journey. A courier, with a red-browa 
beard descending to his breast, was busy ia 
locking and unlocking the boxes, as if in search 
of some missing article. 

“ How heavy the roads are in the North,** 
said D’Esmonde, addressing him in German. 

The man touched his cap in a half sullen ci- 
vility, and muttered an assent 

“ I once made the same journey myself in 
winter,” resumed the abbe, “ and I remember 
thinking that no man undergoes such real hard- 
ship as a courier. Sixteen, seventeen — ay, 
twenty days and nights of continued exposure to 
cold and snows, and yet obliged to have all his 
faculties on full stretch the whole time — to re- 
member every post station, every bridge and 
ferry — the steep mountain passes, where oxen 
must be hired — the frontiers of provinces, where 
passports are vised.” 

“ Ay, and where the lazy officials will keep 
you standing in the deep snow a full hour at 
midnight, while they ring every copeck, to sea 
it be good money.” 

“ That’s the true and only metal for a coin- 
age,” said D’Esmonde, as he drew forth a gold 
Napoleon, and placed it in the other’s hand. 
“Take it, my worthy fellow,” said he, “it’s 
part of a debt I owe to every man who wears 
the courier’s jacket. Had it not been for one of 
your cloth, I’d have been drowned at the ford 
of Ostrovitsch.” 

“ It’s the worst ferry in the empire,” said tho 
courier. “ The emperor himself had a narrow 
escape there. The raft is one half too small.*' 

“ How many days have you taken on th« 
way?” asked D’Esmonde, carelessly. 

“ Twenty-eight — yesterday would have made 
the twenty-ninth — but we arrived before noon.’* 

“ Twenty-eight days !” repeated D’Esmonde, 
pondering. 

4! Ay, and nights too ! But, remember that 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Vradskoi Notski is three hundred and eighty 
wersts below St. Petersburg.'’ 

“ I know it well,” said D Esmonde, u and with 
a heavily loaded carriage it’s a weary road. 
How did she bear the journey ?” said he, in a 
low, scarcely uttered whisper. 

“ Bear it ! — better than I did ; and, except 
when scolding the postillions for not going twelve 
wersts an hour, in deep snow, she enjoyed her- 
self the entire way.” 

D’Esmonde gave a knowing look and a smile, 
as though to say that he recognized her thor- 
oughly m the description. 

* “You know her, then?” asked the courier. 

“ This many a year,” replied the abbe, with 
a faint sigh. 

“ She’s a rare one,” said the man, who grew 
at each instant more confidential, “ and thinks no 
more of a gold rouble than many another would 
of a copeck. Is it true, as they say, she was 
once an actress ?” 

“ There are stranger stories than that about 
her,” said D’Esmonde. “ But why has she 
come alonb ? How happens it that she is 
here ?” 

“ That is the secret that none of us can fath- 
om,” said the courier. “ We thought there was 
to have been another, and I believe there is an- 
other in the passport, but it was no affair of 
mine. I had my orders from the prince’s own 
‘ Intendant,’ who bespoke all the relays for the 
road, and here we are.” 

“ I will explain all the mystery to you at an- 
other time, courier,” said D’Esmonde; mean- 
while, let nothing of what we have been saying 
escape you. By the way,” added he, half care- 
lessly, “ what name did she travel under?” 

“ The passport was made out ‘ Die Grafinn von 
' Dalton ; but she has a Spanish name, for I heard 
it once from the Intendant.” 

“Was it Lola de Seviglia?” 

“ That was it. I remember it well.” 

“We are very old friends indeed!” said the 
abbe ; “ and now be cautious ; let no one know 
we have spoken together, and I can serve your 
fortune hereafter.” 

The German scarcely looked quite satisfied 
with himself for the confidence he had been un- 
wittingly led into ; “ but, after all,” thought he, 
“the priest knew more than I could tell him,” 
and so, he resumed his search, without further 
thought of the matter. 

; , As for D’Esmonde, his first care was to in- 
quire for Monsieur de Grasse, the prince’s chief 
. secretary, with whom he remained closeted for 
nigh an hour. It will not be necessary to inflict 
all the detail of that interview on the reader ; 
enough, that we state its substance to have been 
a pressing entreaty on the part of D’Esmonde 
t to be admitted to an audience of the prince, as 
firmly resisted by the secretary, whose orders 
were not to admit any one, nor, indeed, acknowl- 
edge that his highness was then there. 

“You must wait upon him at the Crocetto, 
monsignore,” said De Grasse. “ Your presence 
here will simply cause the dismissal of those who 


have admitted you, and yet never advance your 
own wishes in the least.” 

“ My business is too urgent, sir, to be com- 
bated by reasons so weak as these,” replied 
D’Esmonde; “nor am I much accustomed to 
the air of an ante-chamber.” 

“You must yet be aware, monsignore, that 
tfre orders of Prince Midchikoff are absolute in 
his own house.” The secretary dropped his 
voice almost to a whisper as he finished this 
sentence, for he had just overheard the prince 
speaking to some one without, and could detect 
his step as he came along the corridor. 

With a look of most meaning entreaty, he be- 
sought the abbe to keep silence, while he crept 
noiselessly over and turned the key. D’Esmonde 
uttered an exclamation of anger, and, sweeping 
past a window, within which stood a magnifi- 
cent vase of malachite, he caught the costly ob- 
ject in the wide folds of his gown, and dashed 
it to the ground in a thousand pieces. De Grasse 
gave a sudden cry of horror; and at the same 
instant Midchikoff’ knocked at the door, and de- 
manded admittance. With faltering hand the 
secretary turned the key, and the prince enter- 
ed the room, casting his eyes from D’Esmonde 
to the floor, where the fragments lay, and back 
again to the priest, with a significance that 
showed how he interpreted the whole incident. 
As for the abbe, he looked as coldly indifferent 
to the accident, as though it were the veriest 
trifle he had destroyed. 

“ I came to have a few moments’ interview 
with you, prince,” said he, calmly ; “can you sc 
far^oblige me?” 

“ I am entirely at your orders, monsignore,” 
said the Russian, with a faint smile. “ Allow 
me to conduct you to a chamber in less disorder 
than this one.” 

The abbe bowed, and followed him, not seem- 
ing to hear the allusion. And now, passing 
through a number of rooms, whose gorgeous fur- 
niture was carefully covered, they reached a 
small chamber opening upon a conservatory, 
where a breakfast-table was already spread. 

“ I will waste neither your time nor my own, 
prince, by an apology for the hour of this visit, 
nor the place ; my business did not admit of de- 
lay— that will excuse me in your eyes.” 

The prince gave a cold bow, but never spoke. 

D’Esmonde resumed. ‘“ I have heard the 
news from the camp : Lord Norwood tells me 
that the Austrians have fallen back, and with a 
heavy loss, too.”' . , . ’ ; 

“ Not heavy !” said the Russian, with a smile. 

“ Enough, however, to raise the hopes and 
strengthen the courage of the others. Goito 
was at least a victory.” A faint shrug of the 
shoulders was the only reply the prince made, 
and the abbe went on. “ Things are too crit- 
ical, prince, to treat the event slightingly. We 
can not answer either for France or England ; 
still less can we rely on the politicians of Vienna. 
A second or a third reverse, and who can say 
that they will not treat for a peace, at the cost 
of half the states of Lombardy. Nay, sir, I am 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


307 


prince, carelessly, 


not speaking without book,” added he, more 
warmly; “I know — I repeat it^r-I know that 
such a negotiation has been entertained, and that, 
at this moment, the Cabinet of England has the 
matter in its consideration.” 

“It may be so,” said the 
as he poured out his coffee. 

“ Then there is not a moment to be lost^” 
cried the abbe, impetuously. “ A cession of the ! 
Milanais means a Republic of Upper Italy — the 
downfall of the Popedom — the rule, of Infidelity' 
over the Peninsula. Are we — are you prepared 
for this? Enough has been done to show that 
Italian ‘Unity’ is a fiction. Let us complete the 
lesson, by proving that they can not meet the 
Austrian in arms. The present generation, at 
least, will not forget the chastisement, if it be 
but heavy enough.” 

“We may leave that task to the Imperialists,” 
said the prince, with a cold smile. 

“ I do not think so. I know too much of 
German sluggishness and apathy. The rein- 
forcements, that should pour in like a flood, creep 
lazily along. The dread of France — the old 
terror of those wars that once crushed them- — is 
still uppermost. They know not how far Europe 
will permit them to punish a rebellious province; 
and, while they hesitate, they give time for ihe 
growth of that public opinion that will condemn 
them.” 

“ Perhaps you are right,” said the Russian, 
as he sipped his coffee carelessly. 

“And if I be,” cried D’Esmonde, passionate^”, 
“ are we to sit tranquilly here, till the ruin over- 
take us? Will Russia wait till the flame of a 
Red Republic throws its lurid glare over Europe, 
and even gleam's over the cold waters of the 
Neva ? Is it her wish, or to her benefit, that 
the flag of the Democrat and the Infidel is to 
float over the Continent?” 

“ You conjured up the monster yourself, mon- 
siornore. It is for you to order him back to the 
depths he came from.” 

“And we are ready for the task,” said the 
priest. “ We fostered this revolt, because we 
saw it was better to lop ofT a diseased limb than 
to suffer the gangrene to spread over the entire 
bodv; better to cast down into utter perdition 
the wild Democrats, who but half believed us, 
than peril the countless millions of true Catholics. 
Nay, more, we acted with your counsel and con- 
currence. That revolt has already b»rne its 
fruits. Men see no issue to the struggle they 
are engaged in. The men of moderation are 
overborne by the wild clamor of the factionist. 
Anarchy is among them, and now is our moment 
to bid the contest cease, and earn from mankind 
the glorious epithet of- ‘ Peace- maker.’ The; 
tide of victory once turned, see ho\V the mind of 
Europe will turn with it. Good wishes aie 
prone to go with the battalions’ that advance ! 

“ Good wishes are not too costly a sympathy,” 
said the Russian, coolly. 

“ It is to that point I am coming, prince,” 
said the abbe; “nor have I intruded myself on 
your privacy to-day merely to discuss the public 


opinion of Europe. The whole of this question 
lies in a narrow' compass. It is time that this 
struggle should cease — it is, at least, time that 
the tide of conquest should turn. Were Austria 
free to use her strength, we might trust the issue 
to herself, but she is not, and we must help her. 
I hold here the means,” said he, placing on ihe 
table a heavy pocket-book crammed With letters. 
“ This,” said he, taking up one large sealed 
packet, “ is an autograph from his holiness, com- 
manding Durando to halt at the Ro, and under 
no circumstances to cross the frontier. This,” 
continued he, showing another, “ is to Ghirardi, 
to grant leave of absence to all officers who 
desire to return to their homes. This is to 
Krasalelzki, to provide for the disbandment of 
his legion. The King of Naples waits but for 
the signal to recall General Pepe and his con- 
tingent, fifteen thousand strong. And now, 
prince, there is but one other voice in Europe 
we wait for — the Czar’s!” 

“ His Imperial Majesty has ever wished well 
to the cause of order,” said the Russian, with a 
studied calm of manner. 

“ Away with such trifling as this,” said 
D'Esmonde, passionately; “and do not try to 
impose on me by those courteous generalities 
that amuse cabinets. Russia speaks to Western 
Europe best by her gold. The ‘ Rouble’ can 
come where the ‘Cossack’ can not! There are 
men with those armies that comprehend no oilier 
argument- — whose swords have their price. Our 
treasuries are exhausted ; the sacred vessels of 
our altars — the golden ornaments of our shrines 
— are gone. You alone can aid us at this mo- 
ment. It is no barren generosity, prince ! You 
are combatting your Poles more cheaply beside 
the Po and the Adige than on the banks of the 
Vistula ! You are doing more ! You are break- 
ing up those ancient alliances of Europe whose 
existence excluded you from continental power! 
You are buying your freedom to sit down among 
the rulers of the Old World, and accustoming the 
nations of the west to (he voice of the Boyard in 
their councils ! And. greatest of all, you are 
crushing' into annihilation that spirit o{ revolt 
that now rages like a pestilence. But why do 
I speak of these filings to one like you? You 
know full well (be terms of the compact. Your 
own handwriting has confessed it.” 

Midchikoff gave a slight — a very slight move- 
ment of surprise, but never spoke. 

“Yes,” continued D'Esmonde, “I have within 
that pocket-book at this moment the receipt of 
Count Griinenburg, the Austrian secret ary -a t- 
war. for the second installment of a loan ad- 
vanced by Prince MidchikofFto the Imperial Gov- 
ernment. I have a copy of the order in council 
acknowledging in terms of gratitude the aid, and 
recommending that the cross of St. Stephen 
should be conferred on the illustrious lender. 
And. less gracious than these,” added lie >yith 
sarcastic bitterness, “I have the record of the 
emperor’s scruples about according the first- 
class order of Ihe Empire to one whose nobility 
was but left-handed. Were these to appear 


f- 


308 THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


to-morrow in the columns of the “ Rationale ,” 
is it only your pride as a prince that would 
be humbled ? Or, think you, that a single 
stone would rest upon another in this gorgeous 
edifice where we are standing? Who or 
what could restrain an infuriated populace from 
wreaking their vengeance on the traitor ? Who 
would lift a hand against the pillage of this 
splendor, and the desecration of this magnifi- 
cence ? It is not willingly that I tell you these 
things, nor had I ever spoken of them, if you but 
heard me with fitting attention. I know, too, 
the price at which they are uttered. We never 
can be friends : but that is of small moment. 
Our cause — ours, I say — for it is yours no less 
than mine — is above such consideration.” 

“How much doyou require?” said Midchikoff, 
as he leaned his arm on the chimney-piece, and 
stared calmly at the abbe. 

“Ghirardi and his staff demand two hundred 
thousand francs : Albizi will be a cheaper bar- 
gain. Marrionetti and his force will be sur- 
rounded, and retire from Lombardy on parole of 
not serving during the campaign — he only asks 
enough to emigrate with. Then, there is the 
Commissary of Crociati — he is quite ready to 
become his own pay-master. There are others 
of inferior rank and pretensions, with whom I 
shall treat personally. The press, particularly 
of England, will be the difficulty ; but its import- 
ance is above all price. The public mind must 
be brought back, from its sympathy for a people, 
to regard the Rulers more favorably. Anarchy 
and misrule must be displayed in their most 
glaring colors. The Crociati will do us good 
service here ; their crimes would sully a holier 
crusade than this ! But I weary you, sir,” said 
the abbe, stopping suddenly, and observing that 
Midchikoff, instead of seeming to listen, was 
busily occupied in writing. 

“ Morlache holds bills of mine to this amount,” 
said the prince, showing a list of several large 
sums ; “ he will place them at your disposal on 
your giving a receipt for them. This is an order, 
also, regarding certain emeralds I had commis- 
sioned him to have mounted in gold. He need 
not do so, but will dispose of the gems, as I shall 
not want them.” A very slight flush here col- 
ored his cheek, and he paused as if some bitter 
thought had crossed his mind. 

D’Esmonde’s quick eye read the meaning of 
the expression, and he said, “ Am 1 to congratulate 
your highness on the approach of a certain happy 
event?” 

“ His Majesty has not deigned to accord me 
the necessary permission,” was the reply. 

“ Then I will be bold enough to say I con- 


gratulate you,” cried D’Esmonde. “ Your alli- 
ance should be with a royal house, prince. Your 
position in Europe is exceptional ; such should 
be your marriage. Besides, the day is not very 
distant' when there must come another dissection 
of the map of Europe. There will be new prin- 
cipalities, but wanting heads to rule them. The 
world is tired of Cobourgs, and would gladly see 
another name among its royalties.” 

“I am at the disposal of my emperor,” said 
Midchikoff, coldly; for whatever effect the flat- 
teries might produce within, neither his words 
nor his looks would betray it, and now by his 
manner he showed that he wished the interview 
over. 

“ Mademoiselle, then, returns to her family ?” 
asked D’Esmonde. 

“ To the care of the Count von Aucrsberg.” 

“ The reputation of having once attracted your 
highness will be. a fortune to her.” 

“ She has refused a settlement of eighty thou- 
sand roubles a year.” 

“ A most princely offer !” cried D’Esmonde. 

“His Majesty fixed the sum,” said Midchikoff, 
as coolly as though talking ofan indifferent matter. 

D’Esmonde now rose to take his leave, but 
there was a reluctance in his manner that showed 
he was unwilling to go. At last he said, “does 
your highness intend to return to the camp?” 

“The day after to-morrow\” 

“I ask,” said the abbe, “ inasmuch as I am 
hourly in expectation of hearing from Cardinal 
Maraffa, with reference to a certain decoration, 
which you should long since have received — ” 

“Indeed! Has his holiness been pleased to 
consider me among his most ardent well- 
wishers?” cried the prince, interrupting. 

“ I may be in a position to assure your high- 
ness on that score before another day elapses. 
May I hope that you will receive me — even at 
some inconvenience — for my time is much oc- 
cupied just now ?” 

“Whenever you call, Monsieur l 1 Abbe,” was 
the prompt reply. “If you will deign to accept 
this ring as a souvenir of me, it will also serve to 
admit you at all hours, and in all places, to me.” 

“ Your costly gift, prince,” said D’Esmonde, 
flushing, “ has a greater value in my eyes than 
all its lustre can express.” And with a most 
affectionate leave-taking they parted. 

“ At what hour is the prince’s carriage or- 
dered?” said the abbe, as he passed through the 
hall. 

“ For two o’clock precisely, monsignore. He 
is to have an audience at the Pitti.” 

“To Florence — and with speed !” said D’Es- 
monde to his coachman, and away they drove. 




• * X 

CHAPTER LXV. 

TIIE “ MOSKOVA.” 


The Abbe D Esmonde passed a busy morn- 
ing. Twice was he closeted with the President 
of the Ministry, and once was he received in a 
lengthy audience at the “ Pitti ;” after which he 
repaired to the house ofMorlache, where he re- 
mained till after two o’clock. 

“ There goes Midchikoff to the palace,” said 
the Jew, as a handsome equipage drove past. 

“ Then it is time for me to be away,” said 
D’Esmonde, rising. “ I have received orders to 
meet him there. Remember, Morlache, I must 
have this sum in gold, ready by the evening — 
the bills on London can reach me by post.” 

“All shall be attended to,” said Morlache; 
and the abbe entered his carriage once more, 
giving orders for the Pitti. 

When the carriage had passed the first turn- 
ing, however, D' Esmond? appeared suddenly to 
have remembered something that till then had 
escaped him, and he desired the man to drive 
round to the San Gallo gate ; thence, he direct- 
ed his way to the narrow road which traverses 
the valley of the Mngello, and winds along for 
miles at the foot of the hill of Fiesole. Once 
outside the city, D’Esmonde urged the man to 
speed, and they drove for nigh an hour at a rapid 
pace. 

“ There is a footpath somewhere hereabouts 
leads to Frisole,” said D’Esmonde, springing 
out, and casting his eyes around. “I have it. 
Remain here till I come down. I may be ab- 
sent for an hour or more ; but be sure to wait 
for me.” And so saying he passed into a vine- 
yard beside the road, and was soon lost to view. 

The pathway was steep and rugged; but 
D’Esmonde traversed it with an active ,step, 
scarcely seeming to bestow a thought upon its 
difficulties, in the deeper preoccupation of his 
mind. As little did he notice the peasant greet- 
ings that met him, or hear the kindly accents 
that bade him “good-day” as he went> If at 
intervals he stopped in his career, it was ra- 
ther to take breath, and to recruit vi^or for 
new efforts, than to look down upon the gorgeous 
scene that now lay beneath him. For an in- 
stant, however, his thoughts did stray to the ob- 
jects in view, and as he beheld the dark towers 
of a gloomy castellated building, hall-hid among 
tall yew trees, he muttered, 

“ Deeper and darker schemes than mine were 
once enacted there ! — and what fruits have they 
borne, after all ? They who convulsed the age 
they lived in, have never left an impress to rufile 
the future, and, for aught that we know or feel, 


• : 1 ’ ■ ' i. 

the Medici might never have lived. And this,” 
cried he, aloud, “ because theirs was a selfish am- 
bition. There is but one cause whose interests 
are eternal — the Church — that glorious creation 
which combines power here with triumph here- 
after !” 

His face, as he uttered the words, was no bad 
emblem of the nature within : a high and noble 
brow, lit up by the impulses of a great ambi- 
tion, and, beneath, eyes of changeful and treach- 
erous meaning ; while, lower down again, in the 
compressed lips and projecting chin, might be 
read the signs of an unrelenting spirit. 

Passing along through many a tortuous path, 
he at last reached a small private gate, which 
led to the grounds of the “ Moskova.” He had 
to bethink him for a moment of the way which 
conducted to the gardens, but he soon remem- 
bered the direction, and walked on. It was the 
hour when in Italy the whole face of a country 
— the busiest streets of a thronged city — are de- 
serted, and a stillness, far more unbroken than 
that of midnight, prevails. The glowing hours 
of noonday had brought the “siesta,” and not a 
laborer was to be seen in the fields. 

D’Esmonde found the garden unlocked, and 
entered. He knew that, by passing directly on- 
ward to the “ Orangery,” he could enter the 
villa by a small door, which led into the private 
apartments of the prince. This was, however, 
locked, but the window lay open, and with a 
spring he gained the sill, and entered the cham- 
ber. He knew it well ; it was the little room 
appropriated by Midchikoff as his private library, 
simply furnished, and connected with a still 
smaller chamber, where, in an alcove, a species 
of divan stood, on which it was the rich man’s 
caprice at times to pass the night. Although 
certain traces showed that the prince had been 
recently there, no letters nor papers lay about; 
there was no sign of haste or negligence, nor 
was any thing left to the accidents of prying eyes 
or meddling fingers. D‘ Esmonde opened the 
door which conducted into the corridor, and list- 
ened ; but all was silent. He then sat down to 
think. The palace — for such, under the name 
of villa, it was — was of immense extent, and he 
could not expect to ramble many minutes with- 
out chancing upon some of the household. His 
color came and went, as, in deep agitation, he 
conceived in turn every possible project., for he 
was one whose mind worked with all the vio- 
lent. throes of some mighty engine; and even 
when taking counsel with himself, the alternate 


310 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN L : EE. 


impulses of his reason became painful efforts. 
At last, he made up his resolve, and, entering the 
inner chamber, he closed the shutters, and drew 
the curtains, and then, throwing around his 
shoulders a richly-lined cloak of sable, he rung 
the bell loudly and violently. This done, he lay 
down upon the divan, which, in the darkness of 
the recess, was in complete obscurity. He had 
barely time to draw the folds of the mantle about 
him, when a servant entered, with noiseless step, 
and stood at a respectful distance, awaiting what 
lie believed to be his master’s orders. 

“ Send the signora,” muttered D’Esmonde, 
with the cloak folded across his mouth, and then 
turned on his side. The servant bowed, and re- 
tired, 

J ‘ 

D’Esmonde started up, and listened to the re- 
tiring footfalls till they were lost in distance, and 
then the strong pulsations of his own heart 
seemed to mock their measured pace. “ Would 
the stratagem succeed ?” “ Would she come, 

and come alone ?” were the questions which he 
asked himself, as his clasped hands were clench- 
ed, and his lips quivered in strong emotion. An 
unbroken stillness succeeded, so long that, to his 
aching senses, it seemed like hours of time. At 
last, a heavy door was heard to bang — another, 
too — now voices might be detected in the dis- 
tance ; then came footsteps, dt seemed, as of 
several people ; and, lastly, these died away, and 
he could mark the sweeping sounds of a female 
dress coming rapidly along the corridor. The 
door opened and closed — she was in the library, I 
and appeared to be waiting. D’Esmonde gave 
a low, faint cough, and now, hastily passing on, 
she entered the inner chamber, and, with cau- 
tious steps traversing the darkened space, she 
knelt down beside the couch. D'Esmonde’s 
hand lay half uncovered, and on this now another 
hand was gently laid, Not a word was uttered 
by either; indeed their very breathings seemed 
hushed into stillness. 

If the secrets of hearts were open to us, what 
a history, what a life-long experience lay in those 
brief moments ! and what a conflict of passion 
might be read in those two natures! A slight 
shudder shook D’Esmonde's frame at the touch 
of that hand, which so often had been clasped 
within his own, long, long ago, and he raised it 
tenderly and pressed it to his lips. Then, pass- 
ing his other arm around her, so as to prevent 
escape, he said, but in a voice barely audible, the 
one word, “ Lola !” 

With a violent effort she tried to disengage 
herself from his grasp; and although her strug- 
gles were great, not a cry, not a syllable es- 
caped her. 

“ Hear me, Lola,” said D’Esmonde, “ hear 
me with patience and with calm, if not for my j 
sake, for your own.” 

“Unhand me, then,” said she. in a voice which, 
though low, was uttered with all the vehemence 
of strong emotion. “ I am not a prisoner be- 
neath this roof.” 

“ Not a prisoner, say you ?” said D’Esmonde, 
as he locked the door, and advanced toward her. I 


“Can there be any bondage compared to this? 
Does the world know of any slavery so debas- 
ing?” 

“ Dare to utter such words again, and I will 
call to my aid those who will hurl you from that 
window,” s.lid she, in the same subdued accents. 
“ That priestly robe will be but a poor defense 
here.”> , 

“You’d scarcely benefit by the call, Lola,” 
said D’Esmonde, as be stole one hand within the 
folds of his robe. 

“Wotild you kill me?” cried she, turning 
deathly pale. 

“ Be calm, and bear me,” said the priest, as 
be pressed her .down upon a spat, and took one 
directly opposite to her. “ It never cbuld be 
my purpose, Lola, to have come here either to 
injure or revile you. I may, indeed, sorrow 
over the fall of one whose honorable ambitions 
might have soared so high — I may grieve for a 
ruin that was so causeless — but, save when an- 
guish may wring from me a word of bitterness, 
I will not hurt your ears, Lola. J know every 
thing— *-all that has happened — yet have I to 
learn who counseled you to this flight.” 

“Here was my adviser — here!” said she, 
pressing her hand firmly against her side. “ My 
heart, bursting and indignant — my slighted affec- 
tion — my rejected love# You ask me this — you, 
who knew how I loved him.” 

For some seconds her emotion overcame her, 
and, as she covered her face with her hands, 
swayed and rocked from side to side, like one in 
acute bodily pain. 

“ I stooped to tell him all — how I had thought 
and dreamed of him — how followed his footsteps 
— sought out the haunts that he frequented — 
and loved to linger in the places where he had 
been. I told him, too, of one night when I had 
even ventured to seek him in his own chamber, 
and was nearly detected by another Who chanced 
to be there ; my very dress was torn in my flight. 
There was no confession too humiliating for my 
lips to utter, nor my pen to trace; and what nas 
been the return? But why do I speak of these 
things to one whose heart is sealed against affec- 
tion, and whose nature rejects the very name of 
love. You will be a merciless judge, Eustace !” 

“ Go on ; let me heal* you out, Lola,” said the 
priest, gently. 

“The tale is soon told,” rejoined she, hur- 
riedly. “My letter reached him on the eve of 
a grear battle. The army, it appears, had been 
marching for weeks, and suddenly came upon the 
enemy without expecting it. He told me so 
much in about as many words, and said that he 
was passing what might perhaps prove his last 
hours of life in replying to me. 1 Outnumbered 
and outmanoeuvred, nothing remains but to sell 
our lives dearly, and even in our defeat make 
the name of Englishmen one of terror to our 
enemies.’ So be wrote, and so I could have read, 
with a swelling, but not a breaking heart, had 
be not added, that, for my warm affection, my 
whole soul’s devotion, he had nothing but bis 
friendship to give in return— that his heart had 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 311 


long since been another’s, and that, although she 
never could be his — never in all likelihood know 
of his alfection — he would die with her name 
upon his lips, her image in his heart. 1 It mat- 
ters little,’ added he, ‘ in what channel flow the 
feelings ot one, where to-morrow in all likelihood 
the course will be dried up forever. Let me, 
however, with what may be the last lines I shall 
ever write, thank you — nay, bless you — for one 
passage of your letter, and the thought of which 
will nerve my heart in the conflict now so near, 
and make me meet my last hour with an un- 
broken spirit.’ The mystery of these words I 
never could penetrate, nor have I the slightest 
clew to their meaning. But why should I care 
lor them ? Enough that I am slighted, despised, 
and rejected ! This letter came to my hands six 
weeks ago. I at once wrote to the Prince Midchi- 
koft, telling him that the woman he was about to 
marry loved, and was loved by another; that she 
entertained no feeling toward himself but of dread 
and terror. I told him, too, that her very beauty 
would not withstand the inroads of a sorrow that 
was corroding her heart. He replied to me, 
and I wrote again. I was now his confidante, 
and he told me all. How, that he had address- 
ed a formal demand to the emperor for leave to 
marry, and how, he had taken safe measures to 
have his prayer rejected. Then came the tid- 
ings of the Czar’s refusal to Madame de Heiden- 
dorf, and my triumph ; for I told her, and to her 
face, that, once more, we were equals. It was, 
stung by this taunt, that she refused to travel 
with me — refused to accept the splendid dowry 
to which her betrothal entitled her, and demand- 
ed to be restored to her family and friends, poor 
as she had left them. It was then that I resolved 
on this bold step. I had long been learning the 
falsehood of what are called friends, and how he 
who would achieve fortune must trust to himself 
alone. Midchikoff might not love me, but there 
was much in my power to secure his esteem. 
My head could be as fertile in schemes as his 
own. I had seen much, and heard more. The 
petty plottings of the Heidendorf, and the darker 
counsels of the Abbe D’Esmonde, were all known 
to me — ” 

■ “ You did not dare to write my name ?” ask- 
ed the priest, in a slow, deliberate voice. 

“ And why should I not ?” cried she, haugh- 
tily. “ Is it fear, or is it gratitude should hold 
my hand ?” 

“ You forget the past, Lola, or you had never 
said these words.” 

“ I remember it but as a troubled dream, 
which I will not suffer to darken my waking 
hours. At last I begin to live, and never till now 
have I known the sensation of being above fear.” 

“ You told the prince, then, of our relations 
together ? You showed him my letters and your 
own replies ?” said D'Esmonde, as he fixed his 
dark eyes upon her. 

All — all !” said she, with a haughty smile. 

“You, perhaps, told him that I had engaged 
you to write to me of ail you heard or saw at St. 
Petersburg ?” 


“ I said so, in a most unpolished phrase : I 
called myself a spy.” 

“ You were probably not less candid when des- 
ignating your friends, Lola,” said D’Esmonde, 
with a faint smile. “ How, pray, did you name 
me 

“ It was a bitter word — one of cutting re- 
proach, believe me,” said she. “ I called you a 
‘Priest,’ sir; do you think there is another epi- 
thet can contain as much 2” \ 

“ In the overflowing of those frank impulses, 
Lola, of course you spoke of Norwood — of Ger- 
ald Acton, I mean, as you may remember him 
better under that name ; you told the prince of 
vour marriage to this Englishman — a marriage 
solemnized by myself, and of which I retain the 
written evidence.” 

“ With the falsehood that for a brief moment 
imposed upon myself, I would not stoop to cheat 
another ! No, Eustace, this may be priestcraft. 
To outlive a deception, and then employ it; to 
tremble at a fallacy first, and to terrorize by 
means of it after, is excellent Popery, but most 
sorry Womanhood !” 

“ Unhappy, wretched creature !” cried D’Es- 
monde ; “ wherahave you learned these lessons ? 
who could have taught you this?” 

“You, and you alone, Eustace. In reading 
your nature, I unread my own faith. In seeing 
your falsehood, I learned to believe there was no 
truth any where. I asked myself, what must be 
the religion if this man be its interpreter?” 

“Hold — hold!” cried D’Esmonde, passion- 
ately. “It is not to such as you I can render ac- 
count of my actions, nor lay bare the secret work- 
ings of my heart. Know this much, however, 
woman, and ponder over it well, that if a man 
like me can make shipwreck of his whole nature, 
crush his hopes, and blast his budding affections, 
the Cause that exacts the sacrifice must needs 
be holy. Bethink you that my goal is not like 
yours. I have not plotted for a life of inglorious 
ease. I have not schemed to win a pampered 
and voluptuous existence. It is not in a whirl- 
wind of passionate enjoyment I have placed the 
haven of my hopes. You see me — as I have ever 
been — poor, meanly housed, and meanly fed— 
not repining at my lot either, not deeming my 
condition a hard one. Why am I thus, then? 
Are the prizes that worldly men contend for 
above my reach? Am I the inferior of those 
who are carrying away the great rewards of life? 
Where is the stain of falsehood in all this?” 

“ Were I to copy the picture and paint myself 
in the same colors,” said Lola — “were I to 
show what I have stooped to — a scoff* and a 
shame ! — how I neither faltered at a crime, nor 
trembled before exposure — all that I might be 
what I now am !” 

“ The mistress of a prince !” said D’Esmonde, 
with a contemptuous smile. 

“Was it a prouder fortune, when my lover 
was the serge-clad seminarist of Salamanca?’* 
said she, laughing scornfully. 

“ I linked you with a higher destiny, Lola,** 
said D’Esmonde, deliberately. 


312 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ Again you refer to this pretended marriage ; 
but I put no faith in your words ; nor, were they 
even true, should they turn me from my path.” 

“ At least you should confirm your claim to 
his name and title,” said D’Esmonde. The rank 
you will thus attain will but strengthen your po- 
sition in the 'world, and they who would treat 
contemptuously the Toridor’s daughter, will show 
every courtesy and deference to the English 
peeress.” ' f ' , 

“ I will hazard nothing on your advice, priest ?” 
said she, proudly. “ I know you as one who 
never counseled without a scheme of personal 
advantage. This Acton has injured you. You 
desire his ruin ; or, perhaps, some deep intrigue 
awaits myself. It matters not : I will not aid 
you.” 

“How you misjudge me, Lola,” said he, sor- 
rowfully. “ I meant by this act to have repaired 
many an unconscious wrong, and to have vindi- 
cated an affection which the troubled years of 
life have never been able to efface. Amidst all 
the cares of great events, when moments are pre- 
cious as days of ordinary existence, I have come 
to offer you this last reparation. Think well ere 
you reject it.” • 

“Not for an instant!” cried she. passionately. 
Make weaker minds the tools of your subtle ar- 
tifices, and leave me to follow my own career.” 



“I will obey you,” said D’Esmonde, with an 
air of deep humility. “ I ask but one favor. As 
this meeting is unknown to all, never speak of 
it to Midchikoff. My name need never pass 
your lips, nor shall my presence again offend 
you. Adieu for ever !” 

Whether some passing pang of remorse shot 
through her heart, or that a sudden sense of 
dread came across her, Lola stood unable to re- 
ply, and it was only as he moved away toward 
the door, that she found strength to say, “Good, 
by.” • 

“ Let me touch that hand for the last time, 
Lola,” said he. advancing toward her. 

“No, no — leave me!” cried she, with a sick 
shudder, and as though his very approach sug- 
gested peril. 

D’Esmonde bowed submissively, and passed 
out. With slow and measured steps he traversed 
the alleys of the garden ; but once outside the 
walls, he hastened his pace; descending the 
mountain with rapid strides, he gained the road 
where the carriage waited in less than half an 
hour. . s 

“ To the city !” said he ; and, throwing him- 
self back in his seat, drew down the blinds, while, 
With folded arms and closed eyes, he tasted of, 
what habit enabled him, at any moment, to com- 
mand, a refreshing sleep. 



CHAPTER LXYI. 

« VALEGGIO.” 



The little village of Valeggio, near the Lago 
di Guarda, was fixed upon as the spot where 
the commissaries of both armies should meet 
to arrange on the exchange of prisoners. It 
stood at about an equal distance from their 
head-quarters, and, although a poor and insig- 
nificant hamlet, was conveniently situated for 
the purpose in hand. Soon after daybreak, the 
stirring sounds of marching troops awoke the 
inhabitants, and a half-squadron of Piedmontese 
Lancers were seen to ride up the narrow street, 
and, dismounting, to picket their horses in the 
little piazza of the market. Shortly after these 
came an equal number of Hungarian Hus- 
sars, “ Radetzky’s Own,” who drew up in the 
square before the church ; each party seeming 
carefully to avoid even a momentary contact 
with the other. Several country carts and wa- 
gons lined the street, for a number of prisoners 
had arrived the preceding evening, and taken 
up their quarters in the village, who might now 
be seen projecting their pale faces and bandaged 
heads from many a casement, and watching 
with eager curiosity all that was going forward. 
About an hour later, an Austrian general, with 
his staff, rode in from the Pesehiera road, while, 
almost at the very instant, a caleehe with four 
horses dashed up from the opposite direction, 
conveying the Piedmontese “Commissary.” 

So accurately timed was the arrival, that they 
both drew up at the door of the little inn to- 
gether, and as the one dismounted, the other 
alighted from his carriage. » / . . 

The etiquette of precedence, so easily settled 
in the ordinary course of events, becomes a 
matter of some difficulty at certain moments, 
and so the two generals seemed to feel it, as, 
while desirous of showing courtesy, each scru- 
pled at what might seem a compromise of his 
country’s dignity. The Austrian officer was a 
very old man, whose soldier-like air and digni- 
fied deportment recalled the warriors of a past 
century. The other, who was slighter and 
younger, exhibited an air of easy unconcern, 
rather 'smacking of courts than camps, and 
vouching for a greater familiarity with salons 
than with soldier life. 

Thev uncovered and bowed respectfully to 
each other, and the nstood, each waiting, as it 
were, for the initiative of the other. 

“After you, general,” said the younger, at 
length, and with a manner which most court- 1 
eously expressed the deference he felt for age. 1 


“ I must beg you to go first, sir,” replied the 
Austrian. “ I stand here on the territory of my 
master, and I see in you all that demands the 
deference due to a guest.” 

•The other smiled slightly, but obeyed with- 
out a word; and, ascending the stairs, was fol- 
lowed by the old general into the little chamber 
destined for their conference. Slight and trivial 
as this incident was, it is worth mention, as in- 
dicating the whole tone of the interview — one 
characterized by a proud insistance on one side, 
and a certain plastic deference on the other. The 
Austrian spoke like one who felt authorized to 
dictate his terms ; while the Piedmontese seemed 
ready to acquiesce in and accept whatever was 
proffered. The letters which accredited them to 
each other lay open on the table ; but as this pre- 
liminary conversation had not assumed the for- 
mal tone of business, neither seemed to know 
the name or title of the other. In fact, it ap- 
peared like a part of the necessary etiquette 
that they were simply to regard each other as 
representatives of two powers, neither caring to 
know or recognize any personal claims. 

Lists of names were produced on both sides. 
Muster-rolls of regiments, showing the precise 
rank of individuals, and their standing in' the 
service, all arranged with such care and accu- 
racy as to show that the conference itself was 
little more than a formality. A case of brevet- 
rank, or the accident of a staff appointment, 
might now and then call for a remark or an ex- 
planation, but, except at these times, the matter 
went on in mere routine fashion ; a mark of a 
pencil sufficing to break a captivity, and change 
the whole fate of a fellow-man ! 

“ Our task is soon ended, sir,” said the Aus- 
trian, rising at last. “ It would seem that offi- 
cers on both sides prefer death to captivity in 
this war.” 

“The loss has been very great indeed,” said 
the other. “ The peculiar uniform of your offi- 
cers, so distinct from their men, has much ex- 
posed them.” > 

“They met their fate honorably at least, sir; 
they wore the colors of their emperor.” 

“Very true, general,” replied the other, “and 
I will own to you our surprise at the fact that 
there have been no desertions, except from the 
ranks. The popular impression was, that many 
of the Hungarians would have joined the Italian 
cause. It was even said that whole regiments 
would have gone over,” 


314 


TUTS DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“It was a base calumny upon a faithful peo- 
ple and a brave soldiery,” said the other. “I 
will not say that such a falsehood may not have 
blinded their eyes against their truth in their na- 
tional struggle — the love of country might easily 
have been used to a base and treacherous pur- 
pose — but here, in this conflict, not a man will 
desert the cause of the emperor!” The emo- 
tion in which he spoke these words was such, 
that he was obliged to turn away his face to 
conceal it. 

“ Your words have found an illustration among 
the number of our wounded prisoners, general,” 
said the other — “ a young fellow' who, it was 
said, broke his arrest to join the struggle at 
Goito, but whose name nor rank we never could 
find out, for, before being taken, he had torn 
every mark of his grade from cuff and collar.” 

“You know his regiment, perhaps?” 

“ It is said to be Prince Paul of Wirtem- 

J>ergV” 

“ What is he like — what may be his age ?” 
asked the general, hastily. 

“To pronounce from appearance, he is a 
mere boy — brown-haired and blue-eyed, and 
wears no mustache.” 

“Where is he, sir?” asked the old man, 
with a suppressed emotion. 

“In this - very village. He was forwarded 
here last night by a special order of the Duke 
of Savoy, who has taken a deep interest in his 
fate, and requested that I should take measures, 
while restoring him, without exchange, to men- 
tion the signal bravery of his conduct.” 

“The duke’s conduct is worthy of a soldier- 
prince!” said the general, with feeling, “and, 
in my master’s name, I beg to thank him.” 

“The youth is at the temporary hospital, but 
knows nothing of these arrangements for his 
release. Perhaps the tidings will come more 
gratefully to his ears from his own country- 
man.” 

“It is kindly spoken, sir; may I have the 
honor of knowing the name of one who has 
made this interview so agreeable by his cour- 
tesy?” 

• “ My name at this side of the Alps, general, 
is Count de Valctta; but I have another and 
better-known designation, before I pronounce 
which,, I would gladly enlist in my favor what- 
ever I might of your good opinion.” 

“ All this sounds like a riddle to me, Signor 
Conte,” said the general, “ and I am but a plain 
man, little skilled at unraveling a difficulty.'” 

“ I am addressing' the General Count von 
Auersberg?” said the other. “Well, sir, it 
was hearing that you were the officer selected 
fpr this duty, that induced me to ask that I might 
be appointed also. I have been most anxious to 
meet you. and, in the Occidents of a state of war, 
knew not how to compass my object.” 

1 he old general bowed politely, and waited, 
with all patience, for iurther enlightenment. 

“ Mv desire for this meeting, general, pro- 
ceeds from my wish to exculpate myself from 
what may seem to have been an unqualified 


wrong done to a member of your family. I am 
Prince Alexis MidchikofF.” 

Auersberg started from his chair at the 
words, and bent a look of angry indignation at 
the speaker — an expression which the Russian 
bore with the very calmest unconcern. 

“ If I am to resume this explanation,” said 
he, coldly, “it must be when you have reseated 
yourself, and will condescend to hear me suit- 
ably.” 1 i 

a “ And who is to be my guarantee, sir, that I 
am not to listen to an insult ?” cried the old 
general, passionately. “ I see before me the 
man who has outraged the honor of my house. 
You knew well, sir, the customs of your nation, 
and that you had no right to accept a lady’s 
hand in betrothal, without the permission of 
your emperor.” 

“I was certain to obtain it,” w T as the calm 
answer. 

“ So certain that it has been refused — per- 
emptorily, flatly refused.” 

“Very true, general. The refusal came at 
my own special request. Nay. sir, I nee9 not 
tell you these words convey no insulting mean- 
ing; but hear me patiently before yon pronounce. 
The facts are briefly these. It came to my 
knowledge that this young lady’s acceptance of 
me proceeded entirely from -considerations of 
fortune — that she had been greatly influenced 
by others, and strongly urged to do that which 
might, at the sacrifice of herself, benefit her 
family. These considerations were not very 
flattering to me, personally; but I should have 
overlooked them, trusting to time and fortune 
for the result, had I not also learned that her 
affections were bestowed upon another — a Young 
Englishman, with whom she had been for some 
time domesticated, whose picture she possessed, 
and from whom she had received letters. 

“ Am I to take this assertion on trust?” cried 
the general. 

“ By no means, sir. This is the picture, and 
here is one of the letters. I know not if there 
have been many others, nor can I say whether 
she has replied to them. It was enough for me 
that I discovered I had no claim on her affection, 
and that our marriage would bring only misery 
on both sides. To have disclosed these facts 
before the world would of course have exculpa- 
ted me, but have injured her. I therefore took 
what I deemed a more delicate course, and, by 
providing for the Imperial refusal, I solved a 
difficulty that must otherwise have involved her 
in deep reproach.” The prince waited some 
seconds for the general to speak, but the old 
man stood like one stunned and stupefied, unable 
to utter a word. At last, MidchikofF resumed : 
“ My master fixed a sum of eighty thousand 
roubles, to which 1 at once assented, as a set- 
tlement on Mademoiselle de Dalton ; but this, I 
grieve to say 7 , she has peremptorily rejected.” 

“Has she — has she done this?” cried the old 
count. “Then, by St. Stephen! she is my own 
dear child forever; come what may, there is no 
disgrace can attach to her.” 


315 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


' I had hoped, sir,” said Midchikoff, “ that 
you might have seen this matter as I did, and 
that I might have counted on your advocating 
what is simply a measure of justice.” 

I know little of the extent to which money 
reparations ean atone for injured feelings or 
wounded honor. My life has never supplied j 
even a single lesson on that score. All 1 see 
here is, an injury on either side. Your fault, I 
think, has been properly expiated ; and as for 
hei s, I want no other justification than what you 
ha\e told me. Now, where is she ? When may 
I see her?” 

“ I had given orders for her return to Vienna, I 
with the intention of placing her under your | 
charge ; but some mistake has occurred, and 
her departure has been delayed. A second' 
courier has, however, been dispatched, and ere ' 
this she will have lelt St. Petersburg.” 

“You have acted well throughout, prince,” 
said the old general ; “and I shall owe you my 
gratitude for the remainder of my life ; not for 
the delicacy of your reserve, still less for the 
generous character of your intentions, but be- 
cause you have shown me that this girl has a 
high-hearted sense of honor, and is a thorough 
Dalton.” The old man's eyes filled up with j 
tears, and he had to turn away to hide his emo- 
tion. 

Midchikoff rose to withdraw, affecting to busy 
himself with the papers on the table, while . 
Auersberg was recovering his self-possession. 1 
This did not, however, seem an easy task, for j 
the old general, forgetting every thing save | 
Kate, leaned his head on his hands, and was 
lost in thought. 

The prince respected his emotion, and with- 
drew in silence. 

So much was the old General von Auersberg 
absorbed in his interest for Kate, that he had not ( 
a thought to bestow upon the immediate affairs 
before him. It was scarcely a few weeks since 
he had received a few lines from herself, telling 
of the emperor’s refusal, and asking for his ad- 
vice. It needed all his long-pledged devotion [ 
to monarchy to enable him to read the lines 
without an outbreak of passion ; and his first 
impulse was to seek out the man who had so 
grossly insulted his house, and challenge him to 
sino-le combat. Later reflection showed him 

O . i 

that this would be to arraign the conduct of the 
emperor, and to call in question the judgment 
of a crowned head. While agitated by these 
opposite considerations, there came another and 
scarcely less sad epistle to his hand ; and if the 
writer was wanting in those claims to station 
and rank, which had such hold upon his heart, 1 
her touching words and simple style moved him 
to emotions that for many a year seemed to have 
slept within him. 

It was Nelly’s account of her father’s death, 
told in her own unpretending words, and ad- 
dressed to one whom she recognized as the head 
of her house. She dwelt with gratitude on the 
old count’s kindness, and said how often her 
father had recurred to the thought of his protec- 


tion and guidance to Frank, when the time 
should come that would leave him fatherless. 
It seemed as if up to this point she had written 
calmly and collectedly, expressing herself in re- 
spectful distance to one so much above her. Nc 
sooner, however, had she penned Frank’s name, 
than all this reserve gave way before the gushing 
torrent of her feelings, and she proceeded : 

“ And, oh, sir ! is not the hour come when 
that protection is needed ? Is not my poor 
brother a prisoner, charged with a terrible 
offense — no less than treason to his emperor ? 
You, who are yourself a great soldier, can say 
if such is like to be the crime of one well-born, 
generous, and noble as Frank; whose heart 
ever overflowed to all who served him, and who, 
in the reckless buoyancy of youth, never forgot 
his honor. Crafty and designing men — if such 
there may have been around him — might possi- 
bly have thrown their snares over him ; but no 
persuasion nor seductions could have made him 
a traitor. ‘ See what the Kaiser has made 
Count Stephen !’ were some of the last lines ho 
ever wrote to me, ‘ and, perhaps, one day, an- 
other Dalton will stand as high in the favor of 
his master.’ His whole heart and soul were in 
his soldier life. You, sir, were his guide-star, 
and, thinking of you, how could he have dreamed 
of disloyalty ? They tell me, that in troubled 
times like these, when many have faltered in 
their allegiance, that such accusations are rarely 
well inquired into, and that courts-martial deal 
peremptorily with the prisoners ; but you will 
not suffer my brother to be thus tried and judged. 
You will remember that he is a stranger in that 
land—* -an orphan — a mere boy, too — friendless 
— no, no, not friendless — forgive me the un- 
gracious word — he who bears your name, and 
carries in his veins your blood, can not be called 
friendless. You will say, perhaps, How defend 
him? — how reply to charges which will be made 
with all the force of witness and circumstance? 
I answer, hear his own story of himself — he never 
told a lie, remember that, count — from his in- 
fancy upward, we, who lived wilh and about 
him, know that he never told a lie! If the ac- 
cusation be just — and, oh ! may God avert this 
calamity — Frank will say so. He will tell how, 
and when, and why this poison of disaffection 
entered his heart; he will trace out his days of 
temptation, and struggle, and fall, without a 
shadow of concealment; and if this sad time is 
to come, even then, do not desert him. Bethink 
you of his boyhood, his warm, ardent nature, 
burning for some field of glorious enterprise, and 
dazzled by visions of personal distinction. How 
could he judge the knotted questions which agi- 
tate the deepest minds of great thinkers. A 
mere pretense, a w T ell-painted scene of oppres- 
sion or sufferance, might easily enlist the sym- 
pathies of a boy, whose impulses have more 
than once made him bestow on the passing beg- 
gar the little hoardings of weeks. And yet, 
with all these, he is not guilty — I never can 
believe that he could be ! Oh, sir, you know 


316 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


not as I know, how treason in him would be 
like a living falsehood ; how the act of disloyal- 
ty would be the utter denial of all those dreams 
of future greatness which, over our humble fire- 
side, were his world ! To serve the Kaiser — 
the same gracious master who had rewarded 
and ennobled our great kinsman — to win honors 
and distinctions that should rival his; to make 
our ancient name hold a high place in the cata- 
logue of chivalrous soldiers — these were Frank’s 
ambitions. If you but knew how we, his sisters, 
weak and timid girls, seeking the quiet paths of 
life, where our insignificance might easiest be 
shroqded — if you knew how we grew to feel 
the ardor that glowed in his heart and actually 
caught up the enthusiasm that swelled the young 
soldier’s bosom. You have seen the world, well 
and long ; and, I ask, is this the clay of which 
traitors are fashioned? Be a. father to him, 
then, who has none ; and may God let you feel 
all the happiness a child’s affection can bestow 
in return. 

“ We are a sad heritage, sir count! for I now 
must plead for another, not less a prisoner than 
my poor brother. Kate is in a durance, which, 
if more splendid, is sad as his. The ceremony 
of betrothal- -which, if I am rightly told, is a 
mere ceremonial — has consigned her to a dis- 
tant land, and a life of dreary seclusion. There 
is no longer a reason for this. The sacrifice 
that she was willing to make, can no confer no 
benefit on him who sleeps in the church-yard. 
The prince has shown toward her a degree of 
indifference which will well warrant this breach. 
There was no affection on either side, and it 
would be but to ratify a falsehood to pledge 
fidelity. You alone have influence to effect this. 
She will hear your counsels, and follow them ; 
wilh respect, and the prince will scarcely oppose ! 
what his conduct seems to favor. This done, ! 
sir count, let Kate be your daughter ; and, oh ! 
in all the glory of your great successes, what 
have you gained to compare with this? She 
loves you already — she has told me of the affec- j 
tionate gentleness of your manner, the charm of 
your chivalrous sentiments, and a nobility marked 
by every word and every gesture. Think, then, 
of the unbought devotion of such a child — your 
own by blood and adoption — loving, tending, 
and administering to you. Think of the proud 
beating of your heart as she leans upon your 
arm, and think of the happiness, as she throws 
around your solitary fire-side all the charm of a 
home ! How seldom is it that generosity dou- 
bles itself in its reward, but here it will be so. 
You will be loved, and you will be happy. With 
two such children, guided by your influence, and : 
elevated by your example, what would be your 
happiness, and what their fortune ?” 

In all these pleadings for those she loved so 
dearly, no allusion ever was made by her to her 
own condition. A few lines at the verv end of 
the letter were all that referred to herself. 
They were corn died in words of much humility, 
excusing herself for the boldness of the appeal 1 


she had made, and apologizing for the hardihood 
with which it might be said she had urged her 
request. 

“ But you will forgive — you have already for- 
given me, sir count,” wrote she ; “my unlettered 
style, and my trembling fingers have shown you 
that this task must have lain near to my heart, 
or I had not dared to undertake it. My life has 
been spent in a sphere of humble duties and 
humble companionship. How easily, then, may 
I have transgressed the limits of the deference 
that should separate us ! I can but answer for 
my own heart, within which there exists toward 
you but the one feeling of devotion — deep and 
hopeful. 

“ If in your kindness you should ever bestow 
a thought upon me, you will like to know that 
I am well and happy. Too lowly in condition, 
too rude in manners, to share the fortune of those 
I love so dearly, I would yet delight to hear of 
and from them, to know that they still bear me 
in their affection, and think with fondness on poor 
lame Nelly. Even the blessing of their presence 
would not repay me for the wrong I should do 
them by my companionship, for I am a peasant 
girl, as much from choice as nature. Still, the 
sister’s heart throbs strongly within the coarse 
bodice, and, as I sit at my work, Frank and Kate 
will bear me in company and cheer my solitary 
hours. 

“ My humble skill is amply sufficient to sup- 
pi} 7 all my wants, were they far greater than 
habit has made them. I live in a land dear to 
me by associations of thought and feeling, sur- 
rounded by those of a condition like my own, 
and w r ho love and regard me. I am not with- 
out my share of duties, too — your kindness would 
not wish more for me. Farewell, then, sir count. 
Your high-hearted nature has taught you to 
tread a lofty path in life, and strive — and with 
great success — for the great rewards of merit. 
It will be a pleasure to you yet to know, that in 
this country of your adoption there are humble 
prizes for humble aspirants, and that one of these 
has fallen to the lot of 

“Nelly Dalton. 

. - ; ✓ < j; 

“ Any letter addressed ‘ To the care of Andreas 
Brennen, Juden Gasse, Innspruck,’ will reach me 
safely. I need not say with what gratitude I 
should receive it.” 

. ; j. ■ ( „ * 

Such were the lines which reached the old 
count’s hand on the very day he set out with 
his detachment for Vienna. Overcome by shame 
and sorrow at what he believed to be Frank 
Dalton’s treason, he had demanded of the Min- 
ister of War his own act of retirement from the 
army, and for some months had passed a life of 
privacy in a little village on the Styrian frontier. 
The wide-spread disaffection of the Austrian 
provinces — the open revolt of Prague — the more 
than threatening aspect of Hungary, and the 
formidable struggle then going on in Lombardy, 
had called back into active life almost all the 


317 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


retired servants of the monarchy. To give way 
to private grief at such a moment seemed like 


an act ol disloyalty, and, throwing off every mere 
personal consideration, the old soldier repaired to 
the capital, and presented himself at the levee 
of the Archduke Joseph. He was received with 
enthusiasm. Covered with years as he was, no 
man enjoyed more of the confidence and respect 
of the soldiery, who regarded him as one tried 
and proved by the great wars of the Empire — 
a colonel of Wagram was both a patriarch and 
a hero. It was of great consequence, too, at 
that precise conjuncture, to rally round the 
throne all that were distinguished for fealty and 
devotion. He was immediately appointed to the 
command ol a division of the army, and ordered 
to set out for Italv* v. 

The complicated nature of the politics of the 
period — the mixture of just demand and armed 
menace — the blending up of fair and reasonable 
expectations with impracticable or impossible 
concessions, had so disturbed the minds of men, 
that few were able, by their own unaided judg- 
ment, to distinguish on which side lay right and 
justice ; nor was it easy, from the changeful 
counsels of the monarch, to know whether the 
loyalty of to-day might not be pronounced treason 
to-morrow. Many of the minor movements of 
the time — even the great struggle of the Hun- 
garians — originated in a spontaneous burst of 
devotion to the emperor — to be afterward con- 
verted by the dark and wily policy of an un- 
scrupulous leader into open rebellion. No wonder, 
then, if in such difficult and embarrassing circum- 
stances, many strayed unconsciously from the 
paths of duty — some, misled by specious dreams 
of nationality ; others, from sympathy with what 
they thought the weaker party ; and others, 
again, by the force of mere companionship, or 
contact. In this way, few families were to be 
found where one or more had not joined the 
patriotic party, and all the ties of affection were 
weak in comparison with the headlong force of 
popular enthusiasm. The old General von Auers- 
berg knew nothing of these great changes; no 
news of them had reached his retirement; so that 
when he rejoined the army, he was shocked to 
see how many had fallen away and deserted from 
the ancient standard of the Kaiser. Many a 
high name and many an ancient title were more 
than suspected among the Hungarian nobility ; 
while in Italy, they who most largely enjoyed 
the confidence of the government were to be 
found in the ranks of the insurgents. 

It might be supposed that these things would 
have in some degree reconciled the old count to 
the imputed treason of his nephew, and that he 
would have found some consolation at least in 
the generality of the misfortune. Not so, how- 1 
ever. His mind viewed the matter in a different 
light. He was willing to concede much to mis- 
taken feelings of nationality, and to associations 
with a time of former independence; but these 
motives could have no relation to one who came 
into the service as he himself and Frank did — 
soldiers bv the grace and favor of the emperor. 


The blot this treason left upon his name was 
then a sore affliction to one whose whole aim in 
life had been to transmit an honorable reputation 
and an unshaken fidelity behind him. His rea- 
soning was thus : “ We have no claims of ancient 
services to. the monarchy to adduce — our ances- 
tors never proved their devotion to the House of 
Hapsburg in times past — we must be taken for 
what our own deeds stamp us.” With this 
decisive judgment he was ready to see Frank 
delivered before a court, tried and sentenced, 
without offering one word in his behalf. "This 
done,” thought he, “it remains but for me to 
show that I have made the only expiation in my 
power, and paid with my heart’s blood for an- 
other’s fault.” 

Such was the resolve with which he crossed 
the Alps — a resolve defeated for the mon ent by 
discovering that Frank was no longer a prisoner, 
but. had made his escape in some unexplained 
manner on the eventful day of Goito. 

This disappointment, and the still sadder tid- 
ings of the emperor’s withheld permission to 
Kate’s marriage, came to his ears the same day 
— the most sorrowful, perhaps, of his whole life. 
His honorable fame as a soldier tarnished — his 
high ambition for a great alliance dashed by 
disappointment — he fell back for consolation 
upon poor Nelly’s letter. The weak point of 
his character had ever been a dread of what he 
called his Irish cousins; — the notion that his 
successes and supposed wealth would draw upon 
him a host of hungry and importunate relatives, 
eager to profit by the hard-won honors of his 
unaided career. And although year after year 
rolled on, and no sign was made, nor any token 
given, that he was remembered in the land of 
his forefathers, the terror was still fresh in his 
mind ; and when at last Peter Dalton’s letter 
reached him, he read the lines in a torrent of 
anger — the accumulation of long years of anti- 
cipation. Nelly’s epistle was a complete enigma 
to him — she was evidently unprotected, and yet 
not selfish — she was in the very humblest cir- 
cumstances, and never asked for assistance — she 
was feelingly alive to every sorrow of her brother 
and her sister, and had not one thought for her 
own calamities. What could all this mean — 
was it any new phase or form of supplication, or 
was it really that there did exist one in the world 
whose poverty was above wealth, and whose 
simple nature was more exalted than rank or 
station? With all these conflicting thoughts, 
and all the emotions which succeeded to the 
various tidings he had heard, the count sat over- 
whelmed by the cares that pressed upon him ; 
nor was it for some hours after Midchikoff’s 
departure that he could rally his faculties to be 
“ up and doing.” 

The buzz and murmur of voices in an outer 
room first recalled him to active thought, and ho 
learned that several officers, recently exchanged, 
had come to offer their thanks for his kind inter- 
vention. The duty, which was a mere cere- 
mony, passed over rapidly, arid he was once more 
alone, when he heard the slow and heavy tread 


318 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


of a foot. ascending the stairs, one by one, stop- 
ping at intervals too, as though the effort were 
one of great labor. Like the loud ticking of a 
clock to the watchful ears of sickness, there was 
something in the measured monotony of the 
sounds that grated and jarred his irritated nerves, 
and he called out harshly, 

“ Who comes there 

No answer was returned ; and, after the pause 
of a few seconds, the same sound recurred. 

“ Who’s there?” cried the old man louder; 
and a faint, inaudible attempt at reply fol- 
lowed. 

And now, provoked by the interruption, he 
arose to see the cause, when the door, slowly 
opened, and Frank stood before him, pale and 
bloodies^, with one arm in a sling, and support- 
ing himself on a stick s with the other. His 
wasted limbs but half filled his clothes ; while in 
his lustreless eye and quivering lip there seemed 
the signs of coming death. 

With an instinct of kindness, the old general 
drew out a chair, and pressed the poor boy down 
upon it. The youth kissed the hand as it touch- 
ed him, and then heaved a heavy sigh. 

“ This exertion was unfit for you, my poor 
boy,” said the count, kindly. “ They should not 
have permitted you to leave your bed.” 

“ It was my fault, not theirs, general. I heard 
that you were about to leave the village without 
coming to the hospital, and I thought, as, per- 
haps — ” — here his voice faltered, and a gulping 
fullness of the throat seemed almost to choke him 
— “ that as, perhaps, we might never meet again 
in this world, I ought to make one effort to see 
you, and tell you that I am not, nor ever was a 
traitor.” 

As though the effort had exhausted all his 
strength, his arms dropped as he said the words ; 
his head fell forward, and he would have fallen 
to the ground had not the old general caught 
him in his arms. 

“ You are too weak, too ill for all this, my poor 
fellowt” said the count, as he held the boy’s 
hand in his own, and gazed affectionately at him. 

“True, ever true,” muttered the youth, with 
half-closed lids. 

“I will hear all this when you are better, 
Frank — when you are strong, and able to de- 
clare it manfully and openly. I will bless you 
with my heart’s warmest blessing, for the words 
that restore us both to fair fame and honor ; but 
you must not speak more now.” 

The boy bent his head, in token of submission, 
but never spoke. 

“ ft will be the proudest hour of my life, 
Frank, when you can throw off this reproach, 
and stand forth a thorough Dalton, unshaken in 
truth and honor. But, to do this, you must be 
calm and quiet now — not speak, nor even think 
of these things. You shall remain with me.” 

Here the boy’s tears fell upon the old rqan’s 
hand. For a second or two not a word was 
spoken. At last he went on : 

" Yes ; you shall not leave me from this hour. 
Our fortunes are the same. With you it re- 


| mains to show that we are worthy soldiers of 
our Kaiser;” 

Frank pressed the old count’s hand upon his 
heart, as though to call its very pulses to bear 
witness to his fealty. This simple action seemed 
to have exhausted his last energy, for lie now 
sunk back in his chair and fainted. 

The excitement he had gone through appear- 
ed to have utterly prostrated him, lor he now 
lay for flours motionless and unconscious. Ex- 
cept a heavy sigh at long intervals, he gave no 
signs of life; and the surgeons, having exhaust- 
ed all their resources to stimulate him, gave but 
faint hope of his recovery. They who only knew 
the old count as the stern soldier — bold, abrupt, 
and peremptory — could not conceive by what 
! magic he had been changed into a mould of al- 
most womanly tenderness. There whs no care 
he did not bestow on the sick youth. The first 
surgeons of the staff were sent for, and all that 
skill and affection could suggest were enlisted in 
his service. The case, however, was of gloomy 
presage. It was the relapse fever after a wound, 
aggravated by mental causes of deep influence. 

The greatest sympathy was lblt for the old 
count’s position. His comrades came or sent 
! frequently to him ; kind messages reached him 
j from quarters wherein once lay all Ills pride and 
| glory; and a young archduke came himself to 
1 offer his new litter to -convey Frank to Verona, 
where the Imperial head-quarters were station- 
ed. These were the very flatteries which once 
Von Auersbeyg would have prized above all that 
wealth could give. These were the kind of re- 
cognitions by which he measured his own career 
in life, making him to feel where lie stood; but 
now one grief had so absorbed him, that he 
scarcely noticed them. He could not divest his 
mind, either, of the thought that the boy’s fate 
was intended as a judgment on himself for his 
own cold and ungenerous treatment of him. “ I 
forgot,” would he say to himself, — “ I forgot that 
he was not a easta'Vvay like myself. I forgot that 
the yoigh had been trained up amidst the flow 
of affectionate intercourse, loving and beloved, 
and I compared his position with my own !” 

And such was in reality the very error he 
committed. He believed that by subjecting Frank 
to all the hard rubs which once had been his own 
fate, that he was securing the boy’s future suc- 
cess ; forgetting, the while, how widely different 
were their two natures, and' that the affections 
which are moulded by habits of family associa- 
tion are very unlike the temperament of one un- 
friended and unaided, seeking his, fortune with 
no other guidance than a bold heart and a strong 
will. The old count was not the only one, nor 
will he be the last, to fail into this mistake; and 
it may be as well to take a warning from his 
error, and learn that for success in the remote 
and less trodden paths of life the warm affections 
that attach to home and family are sad obstacles. 

It was ten days before Frank could be remov- 
ed, and then he Was caried in a litter, arriving irt 
Verona on the fourth day. From his watchful 
cares beside the sick-bed, the old general was 


319 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


now; summoned to take part in the eventful coun- ' 
sels of the period. A great and momentous crisis 
had arrived, and the whole fate, not only of Aus- 
tria, but of Europe, depended on the issue. The 
successes of the Italian arms had been up to this 
point, if not decisive, at least sufficiently import- j 
ant, to make the result a question of doubt. If 
the levies contributed by the States of the Church 
and Tuscany were insignificant in a warlike 
point of view, they were most expressive signs 
ol popular feeling at least. Austria, besides, was 
assailed on every flank ; with open treason in her 
capital; and the troops which might have con- 
quered Lombardy were marching northward 
on Prague, or turning eastward toward Hun - 1 
garv. It then became a grave question whether, 
even at the cost of the whole “Milanais,” a peace 
should not be at once concluded ; and Austria 
merely stipulate for certain commercial advan- 
tages, and the undisturbed possession of the Vene- 
tian States. If the more dispassionate heads that 
rule Cabinets saw wisdom in this plan, the 
warmer and less calculating hearts of soldiers 
deemed it a base humiliation. Long accustomed 
to treat the Italians with a haughty contempt, 
they could not endure the thought of recognizing 
them as equals, not to say superiors. There were 
thus two parties in the council : the one eager 
for a speedy termination of the war; and the 
other burning to erase the memory of late de- 
feats, and win back the fair provinces of their 
emperor. To such an extent had this spirit of 
discordance at last gone, that the Cabinet orders 
of Vienna were more than once overruled at 
head-quarters, and the very decrees of the gov- 
ernment slighted by the commander-in-chief. 
It was a time of independent will and personal 
responsibility; and probably to this accident is 
owing the salvation of the Imperial House. 

At last, when the sympathies of France and 
England with the cause of Italy became more 
than a mere suspicion — when troops marched 
southward toward the Alps, and diplomatic mes- 
sages traversed Europe, counseling, in all the 
ambiguous courtesy of red tape, “ wise and rea- 
sonable concessions to the fair demands of a peo- 
ple, the Cabinet of Vienna hastily dispatched 
an Envoy to Lombardy, with orders to concert 
with the generals, and treat for a peace. 

Had a squadron of the enemy dashed through 
the streets of Verona, they could not have cre- 
ated one half the dismay that did the arrival of 
the cal e die which conveyed the Imperial com- 
missioner. The old field-marshal had just re- 
turned from a review of the troops, who, as usual 
when he appeared, were wild with enthusiasm, 
when an officer of his staff announced the pres- 
ence of the envoy, and in a low whisper added 
the object of his mission. A council was speed- 
ily called, and Von Auersberg specially invited 
to be present and assist in its deliberations. 

The discussion lasted several hours; and, how- 
ever unshaken in hope, and resolute in will, the 
old marshals of the empire, they found themselves 
no match in argument for the wily civilian, who, 
displaying before them the financial embarrass- 


ments of the State, showed that war implied 
bankruptcy, and that even victory might mean 
ruin. The great questions of Imperial policy, 
which in their zeal they had overlooked, were 
strongly pressed upon them, and that public 
opinion of Europe, which they had only fancied 
a bugbear and a mockery, was represented as 
the formidable expression of the great family of 
mankind, on the conduct of one of its own mem- 
bers. With all this, it was no easy task to re- 
concile a bold soldier, at the head of a splendid 
army, to retire from the field, to confess himself 
beaten, and to acknowledge defeat, with an as- 
sured sense of victory in his heart. The evening 
closed in, and still they sat in debate. Some, 
had exchanged opposition for a dogged and cold 
silence; others, had modified their views to a 
kind of half-concession ; while a few, rallied 
round their old chief, with a mistaken determina- 
tion to have one more dash at the enemy, should 
the peace be ratified on the day after. It would 
seem as if the “ Commissioner” had been fully 
prepared for every phase of this opposition : he 
combated every argument in turn, and addressed 
himself with readiness to every objection that 
was offered. At last, when, in a burst of morti- 
fication and anger, the old field-marshal arose 
frorrr the table, and declared that, come what 
might, it should never be said that he had lost the 
provinces of his master, the other stole close be- 
side him. and whispered a few words in his ear. 
The old man started — his rugged, weather- 
beaten face, twitched with a short convulsive 
movement, and he threw himself down into a 
chair, with a muttered oath on his lips. 

There was now a dead silence in the cham- 
ber ; every eye was turned stealthily toward the 
old general, by whose counsels they were wont 
to be guided ; but he never spoke a word, and sat 
with his hands resting on his sword-hilt, the 
rattle of the scabbard against the belt, as it 
shook beneath his hand, being the only sound 
heard. 

Those are dreadful moments in life, when men 
of high and daring courage see the trust they 
have long reposed in bold and vigorous measures 
rejected, and in its stead wily and crafty coun- 
sels adopted and followed. This was such a 
moment ; and the old warriors, tried in many a 
battle-field, scarcely dared to meet each other’s 
eyes, from very shame and sorrow. It was just 
then that the sharp, quick trot of horses was 
heard from without, and the jingling sound of 
bells announced a post-carriage. Scarcely had 
it stopped, when an aid-de-camp entered, and 
whispered a few words to the field-marshal. 

“No, no,” said the old man, peevishly; “we 
are marching on to dishonor fast enough. We 
want no priestly aid to hasten our steps !” 

The young officer appeared to hesitate, and 
still lingered in the chamber. 

“It is your friend, the abbe, has arrived,” 
satd the general, addressing the “ Commission- 
er,” “and I have said we, can dispense with his 
arguments. He can add little to what you have 
so ably spoken ; and if we are to depose our 


320 


> 

THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


arms, let it be at the bidding of our emperor, 
and not at the beck of a priest.” 

“ But D'Esmonde must have come from the 
south,” interposed the civilian; “he may have 
some tidings worth hearing.” 

“ Let him come in, then,” said the field-mar- 
shal, abruptly; and the officer retired. 

D' Esmonde had scarcely passed the threshold, 
when his quick, keen glance around the room 
revealed to him the nature of their gloomy coun- 
sels. A dogged look of submission sat on every 
face, and the wily priest read in their fallen 
countenances all the bitterness of defeat. 

The stern coldness of the reception that met 
him never abashed the abbe in the least, and he 
made his compliments to the principal person- 
ages of the council with a “suave” dignity, the 
very opposite to their uneourteous manner. 
Even when he had completed the little circle 
of his attentions, and stood in expectation of a 
request to be seated, his air was calm and un- 
embarrassed, although not a word, or even a 
gesture gave the invitation. All felt that this 

should come from the field-marshal himself, and 
\ * 
none dared to usurp the prerogative of his rank. 

Too deeply lost in his own brooding thoughts to 
attend to any thing else, the old general sat still, 
with his head bent down over the hilt of his 
sabre. 

“ His Holiness commissions me to greet you, 
Herr Feld-marshal,” said the abbe, in a low, soft 
voice, “and to say that those ancient medals 
vou once spoke of shall be speedily transmitted 
to your palace at Milan,” 

“My palace at Milan, sir?” exclaimed the 
old man, fiercely. “ When shall I sec that city 
again? Ask that gentleman yonder, who has 
just arrived from Vienna, what the Cabinet 
counsels are ; he will tell you the glorious tid- 
ings, that the army will read to-morrow in a 
general order !” 

“I have later news than even his!' 1 said the 
abbe, coolly seating himself at the table, and 


if£V • < i 

I , * t • , * 4 

v ■ ‘ \ . . / , t . . 


) 



placing a roll of papers before him. “ Baron 
Brockhausen,” said he, addressing the “ Com- 
missioner,” “ if I mistake not, left Vienna on the 
ninth, reached Innspruck the eleventh, staid there 
till the evening of the thirteenth, and only reached 
here some hours ago. The Prime Minister, con- 
sequently, was unaware that, on the tenth, Gen- 
eral Durando was recalled by the Pope; that, 
on the evening of the same day, Pepe received 
a similar order from the King of Naples; that 
the Tuscan levies and the Polish legion have 
been remanded; and that Piedmont stands alone 
in the contest, with a disorganized army and 
divided councils! These!” said he, pointing 
to the letters before him — “ these are copies of 
the documents I refer to. You will see from 
these that the right flank of the Piedmontese 
army is open and unprotected ; that, except the 
banditti of Rome and Tuscany, there are no 
troops between this and Ferrara; and if the 
reinforcements that are now halted in the Tyrol 
be but hurried down, a great and decisive blow 
may be dealt at once.” 

“ Beym Blitzen ! you ought to have been a 
general of brigade, priest !” cried the old field- 
marshal, as he clasped his hand in both his own, 
and pressed it with delight. “ These are the 
noblest words I have heard to-day. Gentle- 
men,” said he, rising, “there is little more for 
a council to do. You will return at once to 
your several brigades. Schrann’s eight bat- 
talions of Infantry, with two Feld-Jagers, to 
hold themselves in readiness to march to-mor- 
row; the Reuss Hussars to form escort to the 
Light Artillery on the Vicenza road; all the 
other cavalry to take up position to the right, 
toward Pesehiera.” 

“ This means a renewal of hostilities, then ?” 
said the commissioner. 

“ It means, that I will win back the provinces 
of my emperor. Let him dispose of them after 
as he pleases.” And, so saying, he left the 
room, followed by the other officers. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 


“PLOTS, POLITICS, AND PRIESTCRAFT.” 


It would conduee but little to the business of 
our story were we to follow the changeful for- 
tune® of the war, and trace the current of events 
which marked that important campaign. The 
struggle itself is already well known, the secret 
history of the contest has yet to be written. 
We have hinted at some of the machinations 
which provoked the conflict ; we have shown 
the deep game by which Democracy was urged 
on to its own destruction ; and, by the tri- 
umph of Absolutism, the return of the Church 
to her ancient rule provided and secured ; we 
have vaguely shadowed out the dark wiles by 
which Freedom and Anarchy were inseparably 
confounded, and the cause of Liberty was made 
to seem the denial of all Religion. It would 
take us too far away from the humble track of 
our tale were we to dwell on this theme, or 
stop to adduce the various evidences of the truth 
of our assumption. We pass on, therefore, and 
Leave to D’Esmonde the task of chronicling some 
of the tesults of that memorable period. 

The letter, from which we purpose to make 
some extracts, was addressed, like his former 
one, to his Irish correspondent, and opened w'ith 
a kind of thanksgiving over the glorious events 
of the preceding few weeks, wherein victory 
succeeded victory, and the Austrians once again 
became the masters of haughty Milan. We 
pass over the exulting description the abbe gave 
of the discord and dissension in the patriotic 
ranks; the reckless charges of treachery made 
against Carlo Alberto himself, for not undertak- 
ing the defense of a city destitute of every thing ; 
and the violent insubordination of the Lombards 
as the terrible hour of their retribution drew j 
nigh. We have not space for his graphic nar- j 
rative of the king’s escape from Milan, protect- 
ed by an Austrian escort, against the murderous 
assaults of fellow-patriots ! These facts are all 
before the world, nor would it contribute to their 
better understanding were we to adduce the par- 
tisan zeal with which the priest detailed them. 

“ The struggle, you will thus see,” wrote he, 

“ is over. The Blasphemer and the Democrat 
have fallen together, and it will take full a cen- 
tury to rally from the humiliation of such a de- 
feat. Bethink you, my dear Michel, what that 
same century may make the Church, and how, 
if we be but vigorous and watchful, every breach 
in the, glorious fortress may be repaired, every 
outwork strengthened, every bastion newly 
mounted, and her whole garrison refreshed and 
X 


invigorated. Without a great convulsion like 
this we were lost ! The torpor of peace brought 
with it those habits of thought and reflection — 
the sworn enemies of all Faith! As govern- 
ments grew more popular they learned to rely 
less on our aid. The glorious sway of Belief 
was superseded by direct appeals to what they 
called common sense, and imperceptibly, but ir- 
revocably the world was being Protestantized. 
Do not fancy that my fears have exaggerated 
this evil. I speak of what I know thoroughly 
and well. Above all, do not mistake me, as 
though I confounded this wide-spread Heresy 
with what you see around you in Ireland, those 
blackslidings which you so aptly call 1 Soup 
Conversions.’ 

“ By Protestantism, I mean something more ■ 
dangerous than Anglicanism, which, by the way, . 
has latterly shown itself the very reverse of an 
enemy. The peril I dread is that spirit of ex- 
amination and inquiry, which, emboldened by 
the detection of some trumpery trick, goes on to - 
question the great dogma of our religion. And 
here I must say, that these miracles — as they 
will call them — have been most ill-judged and 
ill-timed. Well adapted as they are to stimu- 
late faith and warm zeal in remote and unvisit- 
ed villages, they are serious errors, when they 
aspire to publicity and challenge detection. I 
have done all I could to discountenance them ; 
but even in the Vatican, my dear Michel, there 
are men who fancy we are living in the 16 th 
century ! What are you to do with a deafness, 
that can not be aroused by the blast of a steam- 
engine? and which can sleep undisturbed by the 
thunder of railroads? Well, let us be thankfu' 
lor a little breathing-time; the danger from these 
heretics is over, for the present. And here I 
would ask of you to remark how the very same 
result has taken place, wherever the battle was 
fought. The Church has been triumphant every 
where. Is this accident, my dear friend? Was 
it mere chance that confounded counsels here, 
and dealt out ruin to Ireland also? Why did 
our policy come to a successful issue, here, by 
a dangerous conflict; and, with you, by abstain 
ing from one? Why, but because it was Truth — 
eternal, immutable Truth — for which we strug- 
gled. I must say, that if our game called for 
more active exertions, and perhaps more per- 
sonal hazards, yours , in Ireland, was admirably 
devised. There never was a more complete 
catastrophe than that into w’hich you betrayed 


322 


•THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


your Mitchells and Meaghers ; and does not the 
blind credulity of such men strike you as a spe- 
cial and divine infliction? I own I think so. 
They were, with all their hot blood, and all the 
glow of their youth, serious thinkers, and calm 
reasoners. They could detect the finger of En- 
gland in every tangled scheme, and yet they 
never saw the shadow of your hand as it shook 
in derision over them. Yes, Michel, the game 
was most skillfully played, and I anticipate 
largely from it. The curtain thus falls upon 
the first act of the drama : let us set about to 
prepare for its rising. I am far from saying 
that many errors — some, of the gravest kind — 
have not been committed in the conduct of this 
affair. More than one grand opportunity has 
gone by, without profit ; and even my sugges- 
tion about the restoration of the States of the 
Church to their ancient limits within the Vene- 
tian Provinces, a demand which Romo has for- 
mally renewed every year since the treaty of 
Campo Formio, and which might now have been 
pressed with success: even this was neglected! 
But what could be done with a runaway Pope, 
and a scattered Consistory ? Your letter,, my 
dear Michel, is a perfect catechism — all ques- 
tions ! I must try a reply to some, at least, of 
its inquiries. You are anxious about the en- 
dowment of the Ursulines, and so am I; but un- 
fortunately I can tell you little of my progress 
in that direction. Lady Hester Onslow would ap- 
pear to have fallen into an entanglement of some 
sort with Lord Norwood ; and although I have 
in my possession the means of preventing a mar- 
riage with him. or annulling it, if it should take 
place, yet the very exercise of this power, on 
my part, would as inevitably destroy all my in- 
fluence over her, and be thus a mere piece of 
profitless malice. This, therefore, is a matter 
of some difficulty, increased, too, by his hasty 
departure from Florence — they say for England ; 
but I have no clew to his destination, for he left, 
this on the very day I last wrote to you — the 
day of my visit to the Moskova — in which you 
seem to be so much interested. Strangely 
enough, Michel, both this man and the Russian 
seemed to feel that they were in the toils, and 
broke away, rather than hazard an encounter 
with me. And they were right, too! For the 
deep game of life, there is no teaching like that 
of the cloister : and if we be not omnipotent, it 
is owing to our own weakness of purpose. 
Hildebrand knew this — Boniface knew it also : 
but we have fallen upon poor successors of these 
great men ! What might not a Great Pope be 
in the age we live in ! one whose ambition was 
commensurate with his mission, and who had 
energy and courage for the task before him ! 
Oh ! how I felt this some nights ago, as I sat 
closeted with our present ruler ; would you be- 
lieve it, Michel, he has no higher guide or ex- 
ample than the weak and kind-hearted Pius the 
Seventh. To imitate him is the whole rule of 
his laith, and to resemble him, even in his mis- 
fortunes, has become an ambition. How he 
strung for me the commonplaces of that good 


man, as though they had been the distilled es- 
sences of wisdom ! Alas ! alas ! the great her- 
itage of the Church has not been won by Quaker 
Popes. 

“ You ask about myself. All goes well. The 
'die is cast; and so far, at least, a great point 
gained. The Austrians saw the matter in its 
true light, and with justice perceived that 
diplomacy is a war of reprisals. How I glory 
in the anticipation of this vengeance upon En- 
gland, the encourager and abettor of all the 
treason against our Faith. How little do they 
suspect the storm that is gathering around them ; 
how tranquilly are they walking over the ground 
that is to be earthquaken ! The letters and 
diplomas are all prepared. The Bull itself is 
ready ; to-morrow, if it were opportune, I might 
be proclaimed a Prince of the Church and an 
Archbishop of an English See ! As in every 
great event of life the moment is every thing, 
the question is now one of time. Guardoni — 
and I look upon him as the shrewdest of the 
cardinals — says, ‘Wait! our cause is advancing 
every day in England ; every post brings us 
tidings of desertions to our army — men distin- 
guished in rank, station, or intellect. In our 
controversies we have suffered no defeats, while 
our moderation has gained us many well-wish- 
ers ; we have a tone of general liberality to work 
upon, that is eminently favorable to a policy, 
meek, lowly, and unpretending. Therefore, I 
say, Wait; and do not forfeit such advantages 
for the glory of a pageant.’ Against this it 
might be urged, that the hour is come to pro- 
claim our victory ; and that it would be a craven 
policy not to unfurl our banner above the walls 
we have won ! I repose less trust in the force 
of this reasoning than in another view of the 
subject; and it is to the ricochet of our shot, 
Michel, that I look for the damage of our enemy. 
My calculation is this : the bold pretensions we 
advance will arouse the passions of the whole 
island ; meetings, and addresses, and petitions, 
will abound. All the rampant insolence of out- 
raged bigotry, all the blatant denunciations of 
insulted Protestantism, will burst forth like a 
torrent. We shall be assailed in pamphlets and 
papers ; caricatured, hooted, burned in effigy. 
A wily and well-conducted opposition on our 
part will fan and feed this flame. Some, among 
us, will assume the moderate tone; invoke the 
equality that pertains to every born Briton, and 
ask for the mere undisturbed exercise of our 
Faith. Others, with greater boldness, will ad- 
venture sorties against the enemy, and thus pro- 
voke reply and discussion. To each will be as- 
signed his suited task. All laboring for the one 
great object — to maintain the national fever at 
a white heat — to suffer no interval of calm re- 
flection to come — and to force upon the Parlia- 
ment, by the pressure of outward opinion, some 
severe, or, at least, some galling act of legisla- 
tion. This once accomplished, our game is won, 
and the great schism we have so long worked 
for effected ! It will then be the Government 
on one side and the Church on the other. Could 


323 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


you wish for any thing better? For myself, I 
care little how the campaign be then conducted ; 
the victory must be our own. I have told you 
again and again there is no such policy against 
England as that of hampering the course of her 
justice. It was O’Connell's secret; he had no 
other ; and he never failed till he attempted 
something higher. First, provoke a rash legis- 
lation, and then, wait for the discomfiture that 
will follow it ' With all the boasted working 
of the great Constitution, what a mere trifle 
disturbs and disjoints it. Ay, Michel, a rusty 
nail in the cylinder will spoil the play of the 
piston" although the engine be rated at a thou- 
sand horse power. Such a conflict with Prot- 
estantism, is exactly like the effect of a highly- 
disciplined army taking the field against a mob. 
With ws, all is preconcerted, prearranged, and 
planned ; with fAcm, every thing is impulsive, 
rash, and ill-advised. This glorious prerogative 
of private judgment becomes a capital snare, 
when measures should be combined and united. 
Fancy — I ask you — fancy all the splendid errors 
of their hot enthusiasm — think of the blunders 
they will commit on platform or pulpit — reflect 
upon the folly and absurdity that will fill the 
columns of the public journals, and all the bigoted 
balderdash the press will groan under. What 
coarse irony, what Billingsgate shall we hear 
of our Holy Church — her Saints, her Miracles, 
and her Dogmas — what foul invectives against 
her pious women and their lives of sanctity ! 
And then think of the glorious harvest that will 
follow, as we reply to insult by calm reasonings, 
to bigotry, by words of charity and enlighten- 
ment, appealing to the nation at large for their 
judgment on which side Truth should lie — with 
intolerance, or with Christian meekness and sub- 
mission ? * * 

“Prepare, then, I say, for the coming day; 
the great campaign is about to open, and neither 
you nor I. Michel, will live to see the end of the 
battle. On this side the Alps, all has happened 
as we wished. Italian Liberalism is crushed 
and defeated. The Piedmontese are driven back 
within their frontier, their army beaten, and their 
finances all but exhausted, and Austria is again 
at the head of Northern Italy. Rome will now 
be grander and more glorious than ever. No 
more truckling to Liberalism — no more faith in 
the false prophets of Freedom. Our gorgeous 
‘ Despotism’ will arise reinvigorated by its trials, 
and the Church will proclaim herself the Queen 
of Europe ! 

“ It is an inestimable advantage to have con- 
vinced these meek and good men here that there 
is but one road to victory, and that all alliance 
with what are called Politicians is but a snare 
and a delusion. 

“ The Pope sees this at last, but nothing short 
of wounded pride could have taught him the 
lesson. 

“ Now to your last query, my dear Michel, 
and I feel all gratitude for the warm interest 
with which you make it. W hat is to be done, 

I know not. I am utterly ignorant of my pa- ' 


’ rentage — even of my birth-place. In the admis- 
sion-book of Salamanca, I stand thus : — c Samuel 
Eustace, native of Ireland, aged thirteen years 
and seven months ; stipendiary of the second 
! class.’ There lies my whole history. A cer- 
tain Mr. Godfrey had paid all the expenses of 
' my journey from Louvain, and, up to the period 
! of his death, continued to maintain me. From 
Louvain I can learn nothing. I was a 1 Laic’ 
they believed — perhaps No. 134, or 137 — they 
' do not know which ; and these are but sorry 
facts from which to derive the baptismal regis- 
try of a future cardinal. And yet something 
must be done, and speedily, too. On the ques- 
tion of birth, the Sacred College is peremptory. 
You will say that there ought to be no difficulty 
in devising a genealogy, where there are no ad- 
verse claims to conflict ; and if I could go over 
to Ireland, perhaps the matter might be easy 
enough. At this moment, however, my presence 
here, is all essential, while I am not without a 
hope that accident may afford me a clew to what 
I seek. A few days ago, I was sent for from 
Malgherra to attend the dying bed of a young 
officer, whose illness had so completely disor- 
dered his brain, that he forgot every word of the 
foreign language he was accustomed to speak, 
and could only understand or reply in his native 
English. Although I had other and more press- 
ing cases to attend to, the order coming from an 
archduke made obedience imperative, and so I 
hastened over to Verona, where the sick youth 
lay. Conceive my surprise, Michel, to discover 
that he was the same Dalton — the boy whom I 
have so often adverted to, as eternally crossing 
my path in life — the relative of that Godfrey 
who was my early patron. I have already con- 
fessed to you, Michel, that I felt toward this 
youth in a way for which my calmest reason 
could render no account. Gamblers have often 
told me of certain antipathies they have experi- 
enced, and that the mere presence of an individ- 
ual — one totally unknown to them, perhaps — 
has been so ominous of ill-luck, that they dare 
not risk a bet while he remained in the room. 
I know you will say, that men who pass their 
lives in the alternation of hope and fear, become 
the slaves of every shadow that crosses the im- 
agination, and that they are sorry pilots to trust 
to. So they are, Michel ; they are meanly- 
minded, they are sordid, and they are low; their 
thoughts never soar above the card or the hazard- 
table ; they are dead to all emotions of family 
and affection ; the very events that are convuls- 
ing the world are less audible to their ears than 
the ring of the dice-box ; and yet, with all this, 
would you believe it? they are deep in the mys- 
teries of portents. Their intense study of what 
we call Chance, has taught them to combine, 
and arrange, and discipline every atom and ac- 
cident that can influence an event. They have 
their days of good and evil fortune, and they 
have their agencies that sway them to this side 
or to that. Chemistry shows us that substances 
that resemble metals are decomposed by the in- 
fluence of light alone — do not then despise the 


324 


THE D AX TONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


working of that gleam that darts from a human 
eye and penetrates within the very recesses of 
your brain. 

“ Be the theory true or false, the phenomena 
exercise a deep influence over me, and I have 
never ceased to regard this boy as one inextric- 
ably interwoven with myself and my own for- 
tunes ; I felt a degree of dread at his contact, 
which all my conscious superiority of mind and 
intellect could not allay. In vain have I endeav- 
ored to reason myself out of these delusions, 
but in the realm of imagination reason is in- 
operative ; as well might a painter try to com- 
mit to his pallet the fleeting colors of the rain- 
bow. Shall I own to you, that in moments of 
illness or depression, this terror magnified itself 
to giant proportions, and a thousand wild and 
incongruous fancies would fill my mind. I be- 
thought me of involving him in such difficulty 
that he could no longer be at large ; as a pris- 
oner or an exile, I should never see him more. 
Every snare I tried was a failure; the tempta- 
tions that were most adapted to his nature he 
resisted ; the wiles I threw around him he 
escaped from. Was there not a fate in all this? 
Assuredly there was and is, Michel. I can not 
tell you the relief of mind I should feel if this 
t>oy had shared the fate of your patriots, and that 
the great sea was to roll between him and Eu- 
rope forever. Twenty times a day I think of 
Dirk Hatteraick’s expression with respect to 
Brown : ‘ That boy has been a rock ahead of 
me all through life;’ and be assured that the 
characters of fiction are often powerful teachers. 

“ And now to my narrative. The same note 
winch requested my visit at Verona begged of 
me, if I could possibly accomplish it, to provide 
some English person, who should sit up w r ith 
the sick youth and nurse him. I w r as not sorry 
to receive this commission ; I w’ished to learn 
more about this boy than the confessional at 
such a time could teach; and could I only find 
a suitable agent, this would not be difficult. 
Chance favored me strangely enough. Among 
the prisoners taken at Ancona I found an Irish 
fellow, w’ho, it appears, had taken service in the 
Piedmontese navy. He had been some years in 
America and the West Indies, and from the 
scattered remarks that, he let fall, I perceived 
that he was a man of shrewd, and not over- 
scrupulous nature. He comprehended me in 
an instant; and, although I was most guarded 
in giving my instructions, the fellow read my 
intentions at once. This shrewdness might, in 
other circumstances, have its inconveniences, but 
here it gave me no alarm. I w r as the means of 
his liberation, and, w’ere he troublesome, I could 
consign him to the prison again — to the galleys, if 
needed. In company w’ith this respectable ally, 

I set out for the head-quarters. On my arrival, 

I waited on the Count von Auersberg, in whose 
house the sick boy lay. This old man, w T ho is 
Irish by birth, is more Austrian in nature than 
the members of the House of Hapsburg. I 
found him fully convinced that the white-coated 
legions had reconquered Lombardy by their own ! 


unaided valor, and I left him in the same pleas- 
ant delusion. It appeared that a certain Count 
von Walstein w r as enabled to clear young Dal- 
ton’s character from all taint of treason, by ex- 
hibiting, in his own correspondence, some letters 
and documents that related to the events detailed 
in Frank’s writing, and of w’hich he could have 
had no possible knowledge. This avowal may 
be a serious thing for Walstein, but rescues the 
young Dalton at once, and proves that he was 
merely the writer of Ravitzky’s sentiments ; so 
that here, again, Michel, he escapes. Is not 
this more than strange ? 

“It was not without anxiety that I passed 
the threshold of the sick-chamber ; but happily 
it w T as darkened, and I soon saw that the sick 
youth could never recognize me, were his senses 
even unclouded. He lay motionless, and I thought 
insensible ; but after I spoke to him he rallied a 
little, and asked after his father and his sisters. 
He had not yet heard that his father was dead ; 
and it was affecting to hear the attempt he mad© 
to vindicate his honor, and show that he had 
never been disloyal. By degrees I brought him 
to talk of himself. He saw' that he was dying, 
and had no fears of death ; but there seemed as 
if his conscience w’as burdened by some heavy 
weight, less like guilt than the clew’ to some 
strange and dark affair. The revelation — if it 
deserved the name, for it was made in brok- 
en sentences — now, uttered w T ith rapid vehe- 
mence, now, scarcely audible — was of the 
vaguest kind. You may imagine, however, 
the interest I felt in the narrative as the name 
Godfrey passed his lips. You know my anxiety 
to trace some tie of family to these Godfreys. 
They w’ere gentry of ancient blood and good 
name, and w T ould amply satisfy the demands of 
the Sacred College ; so that when the boy spoko 
of Godfrey, I listened w’ith intense curiosity ; 
but, shall I own it, all my practiced skill, all my 
science of the sick-bed, w’as unable to tell me 
what were the utterings of an unclouded intel- 
lect, and w T hat the wild fitful fancies of fever. 

I know, for I have repeatedly heard it from his 
sister’s lips, that this youth has never been in 
Ireland, and yet he spoke of the peculiar scenery 
of a certain spot, just as if he had traversed it 
yesterday. Mind, that I am carefully distin- 
guishing between w T hat might be the impression 
left by often hearing of a scene from others, and 
that which results from personal observation. 
His w r as altogether of the latter kind. As, for 
instance, when describing a garden, he men- 
tioned how r the w’ind wafted the branches of a 
weeping ash across a window, so as to confuse 
the scene that w’ent on within ; and then lie 
shuddered terribly, and, with a low sigh, ex- 
claimed, ‘ The light went out after that. 5 These 
are not ravings, Michel. This boy know’s some- 
thing of that dark mystery I have more than 
once alluded to in my letters. Could it be that 
his own father was in some w T ay implicated in 
the affair ? Bear in mind how he came to live 
abroad, and never returned to Ireland. From 
! all I can learn, the old Dalton w’as a and 


325 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


reckless character, that would scarcely have ' 
stopped at any thing. Assuredly, the son’s 
conscience is heavily burdened ! Now, there is 
an , easy way to test the truth or fallacy of all 
this ; and herein you must aid me, Michel. I 
have carefully noted every word the boy spoke ; 

I have treasured every syllable that fell from 
him. If his description of the scene be correct, 
the mystery may be unraveled. This you can 
speedily ascertain by visiting the spot. It is 
not more than twenty miles from you, and about 
three or four, I believe, from the little village of 
Inistioge ; it is called Corrig O’Neal — a place 
of some importance once, but now, as I hear, a 
ruin. Go thither, Michel, and tell me correctly 
all these several points : First, does the charac- 
ter of the river scenery suddenly change at this 
spot, and, from an aspect of rich and leafy beauty, 
exhibit only dark and barren mountains, without 
a tree or a shrub ? Is the old manor-house it- 
self only a short distance from the stream, and 
backed by these same gloomy mountains ? The 
house itself, if unaltered, should be high-peaked 
in roof, with tall, narrow windows, and a long 
terrace in front; an imitation, in fact, of an old 
French chateau. These, as you will see, are 
such facts as might have been heard from an- 
other ; but, now, I come to some less likely to 
have been so learned. 

“From this boy’s wanderings, I collect that 
there is a woodland path through these grounds, 
skirting the river in some places, and carried 
along the mountain-side hy a track escarped in 
the rock itself. If this ever existed, its traces 
will still be visible. I am most curious to know 
this fact. I can see the profound impression it 
has made on the youth’s mind, by the various 
ways in which he recurs to it, and the deep emo- 
tion it always evokes. At times, indeed, his 
revelations grow into something like actual de- 
scriptions of an event he had witnessed ; as, for 
instance, last night he started from his sleep, his 
brow all covered with perspiration, and his eyes 
glaring wildly : ‘ Hush !’ he cried ; ‘ hush ! He 
is crossing the garden, now, there he is at the 
door, lie still — lie still !’ I tried to induce him 
to talk on, but he shuddered timidly, and merely 
said, ‘ It’s all over, he has strewn leaves over 
the spot, let us go away.’ You will perhaps say 
that I attach undue importance to what may be 
the mere outpourings of a fevered intellect, but 
there is an intensity in the feeling which accom- 
panies them ; and, moreover, there is a persist- 
ence in the way he always comes back to them, 
that are not like the transient terrors that haunt 
distracted minds. No, Michel, there is a mys- 
tery, and a dreadful one, connected with this 
vision. Remember ! that the secret of Godfrey’s 
death has never been cleared up; the breach 
which separated him from these Daltons was 
then at its widest. Dalton’s character you are 
familiar with ; and, although abroad at that time, 
who can say what agencies may not have worked 
for him. Give your serious consideration to 
these facts, and tell me what you think. You 
know me too well and too long, to suppose that 


1 am actuated by motives of mere curiosity, or 
simply the desire to trace the history of a crime. 
I own to you, that with all my horror of blood, 
I scarcely grieve as I witness the fruitless at- 
tempts of English justice to search out the story 
of a murder. I feel a sort of satisfaction at the 
combat between Saxon dullness and Celtic craft 
— between the brute force of the conqueror, and 
the subtle intelligence of the conquered — that 
tells me of a time to come, when these relations 
shall be reversed. Acquit me, therefore, of any 
undue zeal for the observance of laws that only 
remind me of our slavery. However clear and 
limpid the stream may look, I never forget that 
its source was in foulness ! I am impelled here 
by a force, that my reason can not account for. 
My boyhood was, in some manner, bound up 
with this Godfrey’s fate. I was fatherless when 
he died ! could he have been my father ? This 
thought continually recurs to me ! Such a dis- 
covery would be of great value to me just now ; 
the question of legitimacy would be easily got 
over, as I seek for none of the benefits of succes- 
sion. I only want what will satisfy the Sacred 
College. My dear Michel, I commit all this to 
your care and industry ; give me your aid and 
your advice. Should it happen that Dalton was 
involved in the affair, the secret might have its 
value. This old field-marshal’s pride of name 
and family could be turned to good account. 

“ I must tell you that since I have overheard 
this boy’s ravings, I have studiously avoided in- 
troducing my Irish protege into the sick room. 
My friend, Paul Meekins, might be a most in- 
convenient confidant, and so I shall keep him 
under my own eye, till some opportunity occurs 
to dispose of him. He tells me that his present 
tastes are all ecclesiastical. Do you want a Sa- 
cristan? if so, he would be your man. There 
is no such trusty subordinate, as the fellow with 
what the French call ‘a dark antecedent;’ and 
this I suspect to be his case. 

“ I have well wearied you, my dear friend, 
and yet have I not told you half of what I feel 
on this strange matter. I am little given to 
tremble at shadows, and still there are terrors 
over me that I can not shake off. Write to me, 
then, at once ; tell me all that you see — all that 
you can hear. Observe well the localities; it 
will be curious if the boy be correct. Mark par- 
ticularly if there be a spot of rising ground from 
which the garden is visible, and the windows 
that look into it, and see if there be a door out 
of the garden, at this point. I could almost map 
out the scene from his description. 

“ I have done, and now, I scarcely know 
whether I should feel more relief of heart to 
know that all this youth has said were fever wan- 
derings, or words of solemn meaning. It is 
strange how tranquilly I can move through the 
great events of life, and yet how much a thing 
like this can shake my nerve ; but I suppose it 
is ever so, and that we are great or little as the 
occasion makes us. 

“ I have just heard that Lady Hester Onslow 
has gone over to Ireland. She will probably be 


32 G 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


at Corrig O’Neal. If so, you can present your- j 
self to her as my old and intimate friend, and 
this will afford you an opportunity of examining 
the scene at leisure. I inclose you a few lines 
to serve as introduction. Adieu, my dear Friend. 

“ You have often sighed over the obscurity of 
your position, and the unambitious life of a parish 
priest. Believe me, and from my heart I say it, 

I would willingly exchange all the rewards 1 
have won, all that I could ever hope to win, for 
one week — one short week of such calm quiet 
as breathes under the thatched roof of your little 
cottage. 

“ I leave this for Vienna to-morrow, to thank 
the minister; and with good reason, too, since 
without his assistance the Pope would have 
shrunk from the bold policy. Thence, I go to 
Rome ; but within a fortnight I shall be back in 
Florence, where I hope to hear from you. If > 
all goes w T ell, we shall meet soon. — Yours, in J 
much affection, 

“ Matthew D’Esmonde.” 

As the abbe finished this letter, he turned to 
look at a short note, w’hich, having opened and 
scanned over, he had thrown on the table beside 
him. It was from Albert Jekyl, who wrote to 
inform him that Lord Norwood had just arrived 
in Florence from Ireland, where he had left Lady 
Hester. That so far as he, Jekyl, could make 
out, the viscount had made an offer of marriage, 
and been accepted. 

“It will be for you, my dear abbe,” added 
he, “ to ascertain this fact positively, as, inde- 
pendently of the long journey at this inclement 
season, it would be a very serious injury to me 
were it known that I advanced pretensions that 
were not responded to. He who has never failed 
must not risk a defeat. Pray lose no time in in- 
vestigating this affair, for Florence is filling fast, 
and my future plans will depend upon your 
reply.” 

The priest bestowed little attention on the 
small gossipry that filled up the page. His eye, 
however, caught the name of Midchikoff, and he 
read : 

“The prince returned last Tuesday to the 
Moskova, but no one has seen him, nor has any 
one been admitted within the gates. Of course 
there are a hundred rumors as to the why and 
the wherefore. Some, alleging that he has re- 
ceived orders of ‘reclusion,’ as they call it, from 
home, the emperor not being quite satisfied with 
his political campaign ; some, that he has taken 
up a grudge against the court here, and shows 


his spleen in this fashion. But what shallow rea- 
son would this be for a hermit life ? and what 
legitimate ground of complaint have not we, who, 
so to say, possess a vested interest in his truffles, 
and ortolans, and dry champagne ? I assure you 
that such conduct rouses all the democracy of 
my nature, and I write these lines with a red silk 
cap on my head. After all, the real good he 
effected was a kind of reflected light. He crush- 
ed little people, and ground down all their puny 
efforts at balls, dinners, and dejeuners. He 
shamed into modest insignificance such a world 
of snobbery, and threw an air of ridicule over 
‘small early party-ism,’ and ‘family dinners.’ 
What a world of dyspepsia has he thus averted 
— what heart-burns and heart-burnings ! Oh, 
little people ! little people ! ye are a very dread- 
ful generation, for ye muddy the waters of so- 
ciety, so that no man can drink thereof. 

“ Politically we are calm and reactionary ; 
and, whether it be thrashing has done it, I know 
not; but some of the Tuscans are ‘Black and 
Yellow’ already. Not that the dear Austrians 
promise to make Florence better or pleasanter. 
They mix badly with our population. It is as 
if you threw a spoonful of ‘ Sauer-kraut’ into 
your ‘ Potage a la Reine !’ Besides, the Ital- 
ians are like the Chinese — unchanged and un- 
changeable — and they detest the advent of all 
strangers who would interfere with their own 
little, soft, sleepy, and enervating code of wick- 
edness. ' 

“ Pray send me thf^e lines, just to say — Is it 
to be, or not to be? Rose, the tailor, is perse- 
cuting me about a Mocha-brown, for a wedding 
garment, which certainly would harmonize well 
with the prevailing tints of my hair and eye- 
brows, but I am too prudent a diplomatist to in- 
cur ‘extraordinaires’ till I be sure of ‘ my mis- 
sion.’ Therefore write at once, for such is my 
confidence in your skill and ability, that I only 
wait your mandate to launch into kid-gloves and 
lacquered leather, quite regardless of expense. 

“ Yours, most devotedly, 

“ Albert Jekyl. 

“ I open this to say, that Mori ache was seen 
going to the Moskova last night, with two cas- 
kets of jewels. Will this fact throw any light 
on the mysterious seclusion?” 

These last two lines D’Esmonde read over 
several times, and then, crushing the note in his 
hand, he threw it into the fire. Within an hour 
after, he was on his way to Florence. 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 


\ - ' , • - * - x * 

A SECRET, AND A SNARE. 


As we draw near to the end of our voyage, we 
feel all the difficulty of collecting the scattered 
vessels of our convoy, and, while signalizing the 
“ clippers'’ to shorten sail, we are calling on the 
heavy sailers to crowd “all their canvas.” 

The main interest of our story would keep us 
beside Frank Dalton, whose fate seemed dailvto 
vacillate — now, threatening gloomily — now, ral- 
lying into all the brightness of hope. By slow 
and cautious journeys the old count proceeded 
to remove him to Vienna, where he expected 
soon to be joined by Kate. Leaving them, then, 
to pursue their road by steps far too slow for our 
impatience, we hasten along with D’Esmonde, 
as, with all the speed he could accomplish, he 
made for Florence. 

Occasionally he tried to amuse himself and 
to divert his thoughts by conversing with Meek- 
ins, who accompanied him: but, although the 
man’s shrewdness was above the common, and 
his knowledge of the world very considerable, 
D’Esmonde quickly saw that a thick cloud of re- 
serve covered the real man on all occasions, and 
that his true nature lay many a fathom deep be- 
low that smooth surface. The devout respect 
which he felt for the abbe might, perhaps, have 
increased this reserve — for Meekins was an Irish 
peasant, and never forgot the deference due to 
a priest. 

Accustomed to read men at sight, D’Esmonde 
would give himself no trouble in deciphering a 
page which promised little to reward the labor ; 
and so, after a while, he left his companion to 
occupy the “ box,” while he himself followed his 
own thoughts alone and undisturbed. Now and 
then he would be aroused from his deep reveries 
by remarking the reverential piety of the peas- 
ants as they passed some holy shrine or some con- 
secrated altar. Then, indeed, Meekins displayed 
a fervor so unlike the careless indifference of the 
native, that D’Esmonde was led to reflect upon 
the difference of their natures, and speculate on 
how far this devotion of character was innate in 
the Irishman, or merely the result of circum- 
stances. 

There was an expression of eager, almost 
painful meaning, too, in the man’s face as he 
muttered his prayers, that struck the keen eyes 
of the abbe ; and he could not avoid saying to 
himself, “ That fellow has a load upon his heart. 
Fear, and not hope, is the mainspring of his de- 
votions.” At another moment D’Esmonde might j 
have studied the case as a philosopher studies a ! 


problem — merely for the exercise it may give 
his faculties — but his own cares were too press- 
ing and too numerous for more than a passing 
notice. 

The night was falling as they gained the crest 
of the mountain over Florence. D’Esmonde 
stopped the carriage on the hill above the “ Mos- 
kova,” and gazed steadily for some moments on 
the spot. The villa, partly shrouded in trees, 
was brilliantly illuminated ; the lights gleamed 
and sparkled through the foliage, and, as he 
listened, the sound of rich music came floating 
on the air. 

“This looks little like seclusion,” thought he. 
“ These are signs of some great festivity.” As 
he drew up at the gate, however, he found it 
closed and locked. Not a carriage was to be 
seen. Even the usual lamps were unlighted, and 
all appeared deserted and unoccupied. D’Es- 
monde stood for a few seconds buried in thought; 
his emotion was deep and heartfelt ; for as he 
grasped the iron bars of the gate, his strong 
frame shook and trembled. “True — true!” 
muttered he to himself in an accent of almost 
bursting agony — “ I could not have given thee 
this, Lola, and for this alone hadst thou any 
heart.” He leaned his face against the gate, 
and sobbed heavily. “ What poison,” cried he, 
in a voice of bitterness — “ what poison there 
must be in unholy passion, when it can move a 
heart like mine, after years and years of time! 
To think that not all tho glory of a great cause, 
all the pride of successful ambition, striving for 
rewards the very highest — all that I possess of 
power and influence — all, all, should give way 
to the grief for a half-forgotten unreturned love ! 
How poor a thing the heart is, when we fancy 
its desires to be noblest and highest.” 

This burst of passionate grief over, he slowly 
returned to the carriage and pursued his way to 
Florence ; and, entering the city, he drove for 
the house of Racca Morlache. The Jew was 
not at home, but was to return by eleven o’clock, 
at which hour he had ordered supper for a guest 
and himself. D’Esmonde lay down on a sofa, 
and fell asleep. Wearied as he was, his watch- 
fulness soon detected the approach of footsteps ; 
and, as he listened, he heard the voice of a stranger 
in colloquy with the servant. The door opened 
at the same time, and Lord Norwood entered. 
D’Esmonde only waited for the servant to retire, 
when he sprang forward to salute him. 

“ Oh ! I thought you were at the camp, or at 


328 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Vienna, or somewhere to the north’ard,” said 
the viscount, coolly. 

44 I was so, my lord ; and there I should have 
remained, if a pressing duty had not recalled me 
to Florence.” 

“ You have always so many irons in the fire, 
abbe, that it requires some skill to keep them all 
hot.” 

“You are right, my lord; some skill and 
some practice, too.” 

“ And do you never burn your fingers,” said 
the other, sarcastically. 

“ Very rarely, my lord ; for when I meddle 
with fire, I generally make use of my friends 5 
hands.” 

“ By Jove, it’s not a bad plan !” cried the 
viscount, laughing ; for, as the priest well knew, 
he had a most lively appreciation for every spe- 
cies of knavery, and entertained real respect for 
all who practiced it. “ You are a very downy 
cove, Master D’Esmonde,” said he, gazing at 
him ; “ and you’d have made a very shining figure 
on the T urf, had your fortune thrown you in that 
direction.” 

“ Perhaps so, my lord,” said the abbe, care- 
lessly. “ My own notion is, that fair natural 
gifts are equal to any exigencies ever demanded 
of us ; and that the man of average talent, if he 
have only energy and a strong will, has no su- 
perior to dread.” 

44 That may do well enough,” said Norwood, 
rising and pacing the room — 44 that may do well 
enough, in the common occurrences of life, but 
it won’t do on the Turf, abbe. The fellows are 
too artful for you there. There are too many 
dodges, and tricks, and windings. No, no, be- 
lieve me : nothing has a chance in racing mat- 
ters without perfect and safe 4 information ; 5 you 
know what that means.” 

“ It is precisely the same thing in the world 
at large,” said D’Esmonde. 44 The very clever- 
est men rush into embarrassments, and involve 
themselves in difficulties for which there i« no 
issue, simply for want of what you call 4 informa- 
tion. 5 Even yourself, my lord,” said he, drop- 
ping his voice to a low and distinct whisper — 
44 even yourself may discover that you owe safety 
to a popish priest.” 

44 How do you mean ? What do you allude 
to ?” cried Norwood, eagerly. 

44 Sit down here, my lord. Give me a patient 
hearing for a few minutes. We have fortunately 
a moment of unbroken confidence now ; let us 
profit by it.” 

Norwood seated himself beside the priest, 
without speaking, and, folding his arms, pre- 
pared to hear him calmly. 

44 My Lord Norwood,” said the abbe, “I will 
not torture you by any prolixity, nor will I waste 
your time by any appeal to your forgiveness. If 
my own conduct in the affair I am about to re- 
late should not meet your approval, it is enough 
that I have satisfied my own conscience.” 

44 Go on — go on,” said Norwood, in a tone of 
almost sarcasm; “I see that you have injured 
me, let me hear how and where.” 


44 You shall hear both, my lord, and briefly, 
too. I have only to invoke your memory, and 
the story is told. You remember being at Sala- 
manca, in the year 18 — ? You remember, too, 
a certain Ballerina of the Grand Opera? You 
had seen her first at Seville — ” 

“ Yes — yes,” broke in Norwood, reddening 
deeply ; I know what you mean — the girl was 
my mistress.” 

44 Stay, my lord. Do not dishonor yourself; 
she was your wife — legally and formally mar- 
ried to you — the registry of the act is in exist- 
ence, and the priest who performed the ceremony 
now stands before you.” 

44 By Heaven!” said Norwood, springing to 
his feet, 44 you are a bold fellow to dare this 
game with me ! and to try it in such a place a$ 
this !” 

44 Ay, my lord, the river rolls dark and silently 
beside us,” said D’Esmonde, calmly, 44 and the 
Arno has covered up many a more dreadful 
deed ; but I have no fears — not one. I am un- 
armed, in strength I am certainly not your equal, 
and yet, I repeat it, my heart assures me that I 
stand in no peril.” 

For an instant Norwood seemed to hesitate 
how to act. The great veins of his face and 
forehead became swollen and knotted, and he 
breathed with the rushing sound of severe, re- 
strained passion. At last, as if to guard himself 
against any sudden impulse of anger, he walked 
round and seated himself at the opposite side of 
the table. 

D’Esmonde resumed, as calmly as before — 
44 Yes, my lord, Lola took care that every thing 
should be regular and in form ; and the names 
of Gerald Acton and Lola de Seviglia are in- 
scribed on the records of the Collegiate Chapel. 
Two of the witnesses are still living; one of 
them, then a poor boy carrying messages for the 
convent, is now Captain in the Pope’s Guard.” 

44 Come — come, enough of this,” cried Nor- 
wood, impatiently. 44 1 see the drift of it all. 
When the Church interposes her kind offices, the 
question resolves itself always into money. How- 
much — how much?” 

44 You mistake greatly, my lord ; but your er- 
ror does not offend me. I know too well how- 
men of your form of belief regard men of mine ! 
I am not here either to combat a prejudice, or 
assert a right. I tell you, therefore, calmly and 
dispassionately, that no demand is made upon 
you. There is no siege laid against you, in per- 
son or in purse.” 

44 Then how does the matter concern me, if 
this girl be alive ? — and even of that, I have my 
doubts — 55 

“You need have none,” said D’Esmonde, in- 
terruptingly. 44 Lady Norwood — 55 

44 Stop ! By Heaven ! if you dare to give her 
that name, I’ll riot answer for myself!” 

44 1 call her as she styles herself — as she is 
called by all around her. Yes, my lord, the 
shame is as open as gossip and malevolence can 
make it. The foreigner is but too glad when 
he can involve an English name and title in a 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


329 


reproach that we are prone to cast upon him. 
A peeress is a high mark for scandal ! Who 
stops to ask how, or when, or where she became 
this ? Who interposes a charitable word of ex- 
planation or of incredulity? From what you 
know of life, on what side, think yon, will lie 
the ingenuity and craft? Whether will the 
evidence preponderate to prove her your wife 
or to exonerate you ? At all events, how will 
the matter read in England ? I speak not of 
your ruined hopes of an alliance befitting your 
high station. This is beyond repairing ! But 
are you ready to meet the shame and ignominy 
of the story ? Nothing is too base, nothing too 
infamous for an imputation. Will any one, I 
ask of you — will any one assert that you are 
ignorant of all this? Would any one believe 
who heard it ? Will not the tale be rather cir- 
eulated with all its notes and comments ? Will 
not men fill up every blank by the devices of 
their own bad ingenuity? Will not some assert 
that you are a partner in your own infamy, and 
that your fingers have touched the price of your 
shame ?” 

“ Stop !” cried Norwood. “ Another word — 
one syllable more like this — and, by the Heaven 
above us, your lips will never move again !” 

“ It would be a sorry recompense for my de- 
votion to you, my lord,” said the abbe, with a 
profound sigh. 

“ Devotion !” repeated Norwood, in a voice 
of insulting sarcasm, “ as if I were to be tricked 
by this ! Keep these artifices for some trem- 
bling devotee — some bedridden or palsied wor- 
shiper of saintly relics and holy legerdemain ; 
I’m not the stuff’ for such deceptions!” 

“ And yet, my lord, what possible benefit can 
accrue to myself from this ungracious task? 
With all your ingenuity, what personal gain can 
result to me ?” 

“ What care I for your motives, sir,” respond- 
ed Norwood, fiercely. “ I only know that you 
had never incurred so critical a hazard without 
an object. You either seek to exert a menace 
over me, or to be revenged on herT 

“ Alas, my lord, I see how little hope I 
should have of vindicating myself before you. 
Your, estimate of the Papist suggests nothing 
above craft and dishonesty. You will not be- 
lieve that human affections, love of country, and 
all the other associations of a home, are strong 
in hearts that beat beneath the serge frock of 
the priest. Still less do you know the great 
yorking principle of our faith — the law which 
Binds us, for every unjust act we have done in 
life, to make an expiation, in this world. For 
many a year has my conscience been burdened 
with this offense. But for my weak compliance 
with your request, I should never have performed 
this ceremony. Had I been firm, you had been 
saved. Nay, in my eagerness to serve you, I 
only worked your ruin ; for, on confessing to my 
Superior what I had done, he at once took meas- 
ures to ratify the act of marriage, and my rank 
as a deacon took date from the day before the 
ceremony.” D’Esmonde seemed not to notice 


the gesture of indignation with which Norwood 
heard these words, but went on. “ It is, then, 
to make some requital for this wrong, that I 
now risk all that your anger may inflict upon 


me. 


“Where is this woman?” cried Norwood, 
savagely, and as if impatient at a vindication for 
which he felt no interest. “ Where is she ?” 

“ She is here, my lord,” said the other, meekly. 

“ Here ? How do you mean ? Not in this 
house ?” 

“ I mean that she is now in Florence.” 

“ What, living openly here ? — calling herself 
by my name ?” 

“ She lives in all the splendor of immense 
wealth, and as openly as the protection of Prince 
Midchikoff — ” 

“ Midchikoff — Midchikoff, did you say ?” cried 
Norwood, in a burst of passion. 

“ Yes, my lord. The haughty Russian ex- 
ults in the insult that this offers to the proudest 
aristocracy of Europe. This is the vengeance 
he exacts for the cold disdain he experienced in 
London, and all that reserve that met his at- 
tempts in English society.” 

“ How came she here ? — who sent for her ? 
— who devised this scheme? Tell me the whole 
truth, for, by Heaven, if I see you equivocate, 
you’ll never quit this chamber living.” 

“ I’ll tell you every thing, truthfully and fair- 
ly,” said the abbe, with calm dignity; and now 
in a few words he traced Nina’s life, from the 
time of her residence under Lady Hester’s roof, 
to the moment of her return to Florence. He 
omitted nothing ; neither her intimacy with Je- 
kyl, nor her passion for George Onslow. Even 
to the incident of the torn dress on the night of 
the flight, he told all. 

Norwood listened with the stern collectedness 
of one who had nerved himself for a great effort. 
Although the blood spurted from his compressed' 
lips, and the nails of his fingers were buried in 
his hands, he uttered never a word. At last, 
when D’Esmonde paused, he said. 

“ And you knew all this ?” 

“ Nothing whatever of it. I never chanced 
to see her at Florence, nor had I the slightest 
suspicion of her presence there?” 

Lady Hester knew it ? Miss Dalton knew 

it?” 

“I suspect not, at that time.” 

“They know it now , then?” 

“ Who does not ? Is not Florence ringing 
with the story? When has scandal fallen upon 
such material for its malevolence ? Such dra- 
matis personce as a prince, an English peer, and 
his peeress, are not of everyday’s good fortune.” 

“ Be cautious how you harp on this theme, 
priest. In your good zeal to hammer the metal 
soft, you may chance to crush your own finger.” 

“I must be frank with you, my lord, what- 
ever the hazard. He would be a sorry surgeon 
who, after giving his patient all the agony of 
the knife, stopped short, and left the malady 
unextirpated.” 

“ Come, now, D’Esmonde,” said Norwood, as 


330 


THE DALTONS; OK, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


with a strong grasp he drew the other down on 
the sofa beside him, “ you have your debt to ac- 
quit in this matter as well as myself. I do not 
seek to know how, or why, or upon whom. 
Your priestly craft need not be called into ex- 
ercise — I want nothing of your secrets — I only 
ask your counsel. That much in our common 
cause you can not refuse me. What shall I do 
in this affair? No cant — no hypocritical affec- 
tation of Chystian forgiveness — none of that 
hackneyed advice that you dole out to your 
devotees ; speak freely, and like a man of the 
world. What is to be done here ?” 

“If the marriage admitted of dispute or de- 
nial, I should say, disavow it,” said the priest. 
“It is too late for this.” 

“Goon. What next?” 

“ Then comes the difficulty. To assert your 
own honor, you must begin by a recognition of 
her, as your wife. This looks rash, but I see 
no other course. You can not call Midchikoff 
to a reckoning on any other grounds. Then 
comes the question, is such a woman worth 
fighting for ? or must the only consideration be 
the fact that she bears your name, and that she 
is the Viscountess Norwood in every society she 
can enter ? How is this to be borne ? The 
stricter code of England rejects such claimants 
altogether from its circle, but, on the Continent, 
they are every where. Will it be possible for 
you to live under this open shame?” 

“ Your advice is, then — shoot him !” said 
Norwood ; and he bent his eyes fixedly on the 
priest, as he spoke. “ It is my own notion, 
also. If the choice were open to me, D’Es- 
monde, I’d rather have exacted the payment of 
this debt from Onslow ; I hated the fellow from 
my very heart. Not that I owe this Russian 
any good- will. We have more than once been 
on the verge of a quarrel. It was not my 
fault if it went no further. They say, too, that 
he has no taste for these things. If so, one 
must stimulate his appetite, that’s all — eh, 
D’Esmonde? Your countrymen seldom need 
sueli provocations ?” 

“ We have our faults, my lord ; but this is 
scarcely among their number.” 

“You’re right, D’Esmonde,” said the other, 
pursuing his former line of thought. “ It’s no 
petty penalty to exact from a fellow with fifty 
thousand a year ! I almost fancy I should have 
been a coward myself at such a price !” 

“ You’ll have some difficulty in obtaining ac- 
cess to him, my lord,” remarked the abbe. “ He 
lives in strict privacy, and refuses admission to 
every one.” 

“ But a letter will reach him ?” 

“ It may, or it may not; besides, it may come 
to hand, and yet never be acknowledged.” 

“What is to be done, then?” 

“ I’ll think over it, before we separate. I’ll 
try and suggest something. But here comes 
Morlache ; and now be cautious. Not a word 
to show that you are ill at ease.” The warn- 
ing was scarcely spoken, when the Jew entered. 

Morlache knew D’Esmonde too well to be 


surprised at seeing him any where, or at any 
moment. He saluted him, therefore, as though 
they had met the very day before, and the party 
sat down to supper, in all the seeming ease of 
unburdened minds. 

They chatted over the politics of Italy, and 
the change that had come over Florence since 
the last time they had sat together in that 
chamber. 

“It was a noisy scene, that night,” said Mor- 
lache; “but the streets are quiet enough now.” 

“ Quiet as a corpse,” said Norwood, sternly. 
“ You had no other nostrum for tranquillity, but 
to extinguish life.” 

“ What you regard as death, my lord,” said 
the abbe, “ is only a trance. Italy will rise 
grander and more powerful than ever. One 
element alone has survived through all the con- 
vulsive throes, and all the changing fortunes of 
this land — the Papacy. The terrible wars of 
rival cities and states — the more bloody contests 
of ambitious houses — leave not a trace behind 
them ; but Rome holds on her proud sway, and, 
like the great river of the Poet — ‘ Labitur et 
labetur in omne volubilis cevum.’ ” 

“ To which I beg, in a less classical quota- 
tion, to rejoin — ‘ Confound your politics,’ ” cried 
Norwood, laughing. “ Come, Morlache, let us 
turn to a humbler theme. Who have you got 
here — who are coming for the winter ?” 

“ Say, rather, my lord, who are going away ; 
for there is a general flight from Florence. All 
what hotel folk call good families, are hastening 
off to Rome and Naples.” 

“ What’s the meaning of this, then ?” 

“ It is not very difficult, perhaps, to explain,” 
said the Jew ; “ luxuries are only the creations 
of mere circumstance. The rarity of one land 
may be the very satiety of another ; and the 
iced-punch that tastes so exquisitely at Calcutta, 
would be but sorry tipple at Coppermine River. 
Hence you will see, my lord, that the English 
who come here for wickedness find the place too 
bad for them. There is no zest to their vice — 
they shock nobody — they outrage nothing — in 
fact, they are only as bad as their neighbors.” 

“ I suppose it’s neither better nor worse than 
I remember it, these dozen years and more ?” 
said Norwood. 

“ Probably not, my lord, in fact ; but, in out- 
ward appearance, it has assuredly degenerated ; 
people behave badly every where, but this is the 
only city in Europe where it is deemed right to 
do so.” 

“ Since when have you taken up the trade 
of moralist, Master Morlache?” said Norwood, 
with a sneer. 

11 I'll answer the question,” broke in D’Es- 
monde. “ Since the exchange on England has 
fallen to forty-three and a half. Morlache sees 
his clients diminish, and is consequently as an- 
gry with vice as he had been with its opposite, 
if the same result had come to pass.” 

“ I own,” said the Jew, with a sneer, “ the 
present order of things is far more profitable to 
the confessional than to the ‘ comptoir. 5 ” 


331 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


I hat’s the truth, I’ve no doubt of it,” broke 
in Norwood, laughing. “A low tariff has given 
a great impulse to the trade of wickedness.” 

Taking your own illustration, my lord, we 
are ‘ Protectionists,’ ” said D’Esmonde; “where- 
as you Protestants are the ‘ Free-traders’ in vice.” 

'A plague on both your houses, say I,” cried 
Norwood, yawning. “So, then, Morlache, 
neither you nor I would find this a desirable 
residence ?” 

I fear it will not repay either of us, my 
lord, ’ said the Jew, with a sly look. 

“ The world is growing wonderfully wide 
awake,” said Norwood. “ When I entered life, 
any fellow with a neat hand at billiards, a fair 
knowledge of ecarte or short whist, good whisk- 
ers, and a well-cut waistcoat, might have eked 
out a very pretty existence without any risk, 
and very little exertion. But see what the 
march of intelligence has done ! There’s not 
an Eton boy — not an unfledged ‘ Sub’ in a 
marching regiment — not an unpaid attache at 
a small court — couldn’t compete with you, now, 
in any of these high acquirements. I do not 
fret myself usually about what is to come after 
my time, but I really wonder how the next gen- 
eration will get on at all.” 

“ Civilization moves like the pendulum, my 
lord,” said D’Esmonde; “the next swing will 
be retrograde. And, by the way, that reminds 
me of Russia, and Russia of Prince Midchikoff. 
Is it true that he is recalled, Morlache ?” 

“ Not that 1 know. That report is always 
circulated when there are no dinners at the 
villa. Just as Marshal Soult is said to have 
won or lost the battle of T oulouse, according to 
the momentary estimation he is held in.” 

“ You’ll hear for certain, my lord,” said 
D’Esmonde, addressing Norwood ; “ you are 
going up there, to-night?” 

Norwood muttered an assent, and waited to 
see how this sally was to end. 

“Ah! you are going there, to-night,” re- 
peated Morlache, in some surprise. “Are you 
one of the privileged, then?” 

“ Of course he is,” interposed D’Esmonde, 
authoritatively. 

“ Will you do me a very great favor then, my 
lord?” said Morlache; “which is to take charge 
of this small casket. I promised to bring it 
myself, but it is so late now, and I am so wea- 
ried, that I shall feel much bound to you for the 
service.” ‘ 


“ You can easily acquit the debt of obligation, 
Morlache,” said D’Esmonde, “ for my lord was 
just asking me before you came in, if he could 
take the liberty of begging the loan of your car- 
riage to take him up to the Moskova. You are 
aware that it would not be quite proper to take 
a hired carriage, just now, up to the villa; that, 
as the prince affects to be absent — ” 

“To be sure,” broke in Morlache. “I am 
but too happy to accommodate ^our lordship. 
Your precaution was both delicate and well 
thought of. Indeed, I greatly doubt that they 
would admit a ‘fiacre’ at all.” 

“ I suppose I should have to walk from the 
gate,” said Norwood, who now saw the gist of 
the abbe’s stratagem. 

“ Morlache’s old gray is a passport that re- 
quires no wiser,” said D’Esmonde. “You’ll 
meet neither let nor hindrance with him in 
front of you. You may parody the great states- 
man’s peroration, and say, ‘Where the king can 
not enter, he can.’ Such is it to be a banker’s 
horse.” 

Norwood heard little or nothing of this re- 
mark ; deeply sunk in his own thoughts, he 
arose abruptly from the table. 

“You are not going away, my lord? You 
are surely not deserting that flask of Marco- 
brunner, that we have only lasted ?” 

But Norwood never heard the words, and 
continued to follow his own train of reflection. 
Then, bending over D’Esmonde, he said : 

“In case we should require to cross the fron- 
tier at Lavenza, must we have passports?” 

“ Nothing of the kind. There is no police — 
no inquiry, whatever.” 

“ Good-by, then. If you should not hear from , 
you will hear of me, abbe. There are a few 
things, which, in the event of accident, I will 
jot down in writing. You’ll look to them for 
me. Good-evening, or good-morning — I scarce- 
ly know which.” And, with all the habit- 
ual indolence of his lounging manner, he de- 
parted. 

D’Esmonde stood for a few seconds silent, and 
then said : 

“Is the noble viscount deep in your books?” 

“Deeper than I wish him to be,” said the 
Jew. 

“ Have no fears on that account. He’ll soon 
acquit all his debts,” said the other. “ Good- 
night, Morlache.” And with this abrupt leave- 
taking, he withdrew. 


» 


CHAPTER LXIX. 


. ■ - - v 

A “ SAD EXIT.” 


The French Secretary of Legation was just 
going to bed as his servant handed him a card 
from Lord Norwood, with a few words scribbled 
in pencil. 

“Yes, by all means. Tell my lord to come 
in,” said he ; and Norwood entered. 

“ You remember an old pledge you once 
made me,” said the viscount, smiling. “I have 
come to claim it.” 

“ Diantre ! the case must be pressing that 
would not wait till day-light.” 

“So it is ; and so you will agree with me in 
thinking it, when I tell you all,” said Norwood. 
“ The first point is, may I reckon upon you ?” 

“ Of course ; my word is sacred.” 

“ Secondly, have you pistols that you can de- 
pend upon? Mine have been stopped at Milan 
by the police.” 

“They are Jacquard’s best,” said the French- 
man ; “ and in your hand ought not to disgrace 
their maker.” 

“ Dress, then, and come along with me. This 
affair must be disposed of quickly.” 

“I’m at your orders,” said the Frenchman, 
gayly. “I suppose you will be kind enough to 
tell me something more, as we go along.” 

Norwood nodded an assent, and sat down be- 
fore the fire, and crossed his arms on his breast. 

“ Was it a quarrel at play ?” asked the French- 
man, after an interval of silence. 

“No!” was the abrupt reply. 

“ All the better. It is the only affair of this 
kind I can not endure. Is there a woman in 
it?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Ah ! I perceive,” said the other, with a 
laugh. “ A married woman ?” 

“Yes?” 

“And who is the happy husband, this time?” 
asked he, flippantly. 

“ I am,” replied Norwood, in a low and solemn 
voice. 

“ You! you! I never thought — never sus- 
pected you of being married, Norwood. Pray, 
be a little more explicit. Let me hear the 
whole story.” < 

“ Later on, not now. I want to think of 
something else, at this moment. Are your 
pistols fine in the trigger?” 

“ Excessively so 5 a fly would almost suffice 
to move them. Is he English ?” 

“ No !” 


“ Not a countryman of my own, I hope ?” 

“ No. It is Midehikoff, the Russian.” 

“ Diantre ! what a mark to shoot at. But 
they tell me that he never does go out — that he 
refuses this kind of thing.” 

“ He shall not do so, this time,” said Norwood, 
with a vehement energy of manner. 

“Well, I am ready now; but I must say that 
I should like to hear something of what we are 
about.” , - 

“ There will be ample time for all as we go 

along. We shall drive to the villa. It is neces- 

“ . . . 

sary to obtain an interview with himself. This 
done, I will give the provocation, showing that 
you are ready and in waiting ; there can be no 
delay.” 

“ But he will need a friend ?” 

“ Pie must take one of his secretaries — his 
valet if he prefer it. I’ll give no time for eva- 
sive negotiation.” 

“ I can not be a party to an affair like this, 
Norwood. Whatever the wrong you seek to 
avenge, this is not the mode to do it.” 

“ Say so at once, then,” said Norwood, rising. 
“ Tell me that you gave a rash promise, and are 
sorry for it. Better the refusal now, than when 
it be too late to retract.” - 

“ You mistake me ; I have no wish to unsay 
one single word I ever spoke to you. I only ask 
for such an explanation as 1 have a right to 
demand.” 

“ You shall know every thing : pray spare me 
telling it twice over. There is no use in open- 
ing one’s wound till he comes to the surgeon. 
Enough now, that I tell you, this man owes me 
a full and fair reparation for a great wrong — I 
am equally determined on exacting it. If this 
does not satisfy you, step into the carriage, and 
you shall hear the whole story. 1 can tell it, 
perhaps, when we are rattling along over the 
stones in the dark.” And, so saying, he sat 
down, and leaned his head on the table, as though 
he would not be disturbed. The Frenchman 
went on with his dressing, rapidly, and at last, pro- 
nouncing himself ready, they descended the stairs 
together in silence, and entered the carriage. 

As they drove on, Norwood never spoke ; and 
his companion, respecting perhaps the occasion 
of his silence, did not utter a word. At last they 
arrived at the summit of the hill, and looked down 
upon the city, over which the gray tints of com- 
ing day were breaking. The great Duomo and 


THE DALTONS; OR THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the Palazzo Vecchio lay in massive shadow, and 
it was only at intervals along the Arno, that a 
flickering gleam of cold light fell. The scene, in 
all its calm and stillness, was grand and solemn. 

“ How unlike the Florence of sun and bright 
sky — how unlike the brilliant city of dissipation 
and pleasure!” said Norwood; “and so it is 
with individuals ; we are just what light and 
shadow make us ! Now, listen to me.” He 
then related the whole story of his first meeting 
with Lola down to the moment of D’Esmonde’s 
revelation. “I know well,” said he, “ there may 
be a dozen ways to look on the affair, besides 
that which I have chosen. I might dispute the 
marriage — I might disavow the whole proceed- 
ing — I might, naturally enough, leave such a 
woman to her fate ; she never could be any 
thing to me-, but I can not relinquish the oppor- 
tunity of a reckoning with this Russian. The 
insolence of his wealth gives all the venom to 
this outrage, and I 7 11 shoot him ! All the splen- 
dor of his riches can avail him but little, now. 
And, except some more gold upon his coffin, and 
a richer pall to cover it, he has no advantage 
over me, ruined and beggared as I am. 

“ As to my scores with the world at large, I 
am about quits. They cheated me, when I was 
a young unsuspecting boy, trusting and believ- 
ing every one. I repaid them, as my own time 
came. Men understand this thoroughly, but 
women never do. The moment you cease to be 
their dupe, they hate you. As to my debts, they 
gave me little trouble when living, they’re not 
likely to disturb my rest in the church-yard ; and 
for friends, there is not one alive to whom I 
could send a last word of affection ; and yet you’ll 
scarce believe it, with all this, I’d like to live — 
although if you ask me why, I couldn’t tell it. 
Perhaps it is this,” cried he, after a pause : “ the 
yelping pack that cried me down, in my absence, 
will do so now without fear or restraint. The 
stories of me that once were whispered, will now 
be told, aloud. Slander and calumny can go 
abroad without a dread of consequences. But 
even that is a poor thing to live for !” 

The Frenchman’s philosophy had taught him 
but few sympathies with such gloomy ideas, and 
he tried in every way to rally his friend ; but 
Norwood’s mind was full of very different sor- 
rows from those he had dwelt upon. It was the 
canker of a disappointed abortive life was eating 
into his heart. A fair fortune squandered — a 
noble name tarnished — a high position sacrificed 
— and now, an ignominious quarrel to close his 
career — these were the reflections which, far 
more embittering than all his words, now tor- 
tured and agonized him. 

“ Come,” said he, suddenly, “ we had better 
move forward. It is getting nigh daybreak, and 
our prince will soon be retiring to his room.” 

They now drove rapidly on for some time, 
and at last reached the gate ; where the porter, 
at once recognizing Morlache’s carriage and 
lhery, admitted them without a word. 

“You’ll have to wait for me here, count,” 
said Norwood, when they stopped at the door. 


“I’ll contrive not to keep you long; but this 
part of the matter, I must do alone.” The bell 
had scarcely done ringing when the door was 
opened. “The prince is still at table?” said 
Norwood, half in assertion, half in inquiry, and 
then, with a gesture to the servant to show the 
way, he overawed all scruples about admitting 
him. “ Is he alone ?” said the viscount, as they 
went along. 

“No, sir. The countess is with him.” 

“ Say that a person on most pressing business 
is, here, and must speak with him, at once.” 

“ The prince always requires the name, sir. I 
dare not address him without it.” 

“ Say that I have come from Morlache’s — 
that I have something to deliver into his own 
hands.” 

Norwood placed the casket on the table as he 
spoke. The servant retired and speedily re- 
turned, requesting Norwood to follow him. As 
the door was flung open, Norwood heard voices; 
he stopped, and hesitated. Either an impulse 
of passion, or some change of purpose, worked 
within him, for, as he stood, he grasped the edge 
of the door, and swayed to and fro for some 
seconds. 

“Let him come out — let him come here,” 
cried he, in a loud voice. 

A low murmur of persons speaking was heard 
within, and suddenly, the rustling sound of a fe- 
male dress was followed by the bang of a door; 
and then Norwood entered, and, closing the door, 
locked it behind him. 

The grating sound of the key, made the Rus- 
sian turn his head suddenly around, and his eyes 
met Norwood’s. 

“ What ! my Lord Norwood !” cried he, in 
amazement. “They never told me — ” 

“ If they had, in all likelihood I should not 
have been admitted,” was the stern reply. 

“ I must own, it is an honor for which I was 
scarcely prepared, my lord/’ said the other. 


“ You never spoke more truly, sir,” said 
Norwood. “Men like yourself fancy that their 
solvency in matters of money, implies as much 
in all the various relation* of life, and that, as 
they know not what a Dun means, they are to 
enjoy an equal immunity from every demand of 
honor.” 

“ As you are evidently speaking under some 
strange misapprehension, my lord, I hesitate 
about accepting your words in any offensive 
sense.” 

“ You said you were unprepared for my visit, 
sir, and 1 believe you. As you will be doubtless, 
unprepared for the object of it. Prince Midchi- 
koff, I have come here to request your company 
across the Tuscan frontier ; the matter is of suf- 
ficient importance to warrant the inconvenience. 
You will take any, or as many of your house- 
hold as you please, but you shall accompany me 
from this spot. Come, sir, your air of easy in- 
difference is for once mistimed. You see before 
you a man whose utmost effort can scarcely re- 
press the passion that stirs within him. Neither 
your coolness nor your cowardice — for the qual- 


334 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ity goes by either name — can avail you, here. 
I must and I will have reparation.” 

“ Until I am aware of the injury — until you 
tell me how, or in what, I have wronged you — ” 

‘‘How shall I teach you a lesson of honor, 
sir,” cried Norwood, boiling over with rage, “so 
that you may comprehend even for a moment 
the feeling of a gentleman ? You can not affect 
ignorance as to who and what, is the woman 
that sat there. You need not drive me to the 
indignity of calling her my wife ! You know 
• it well, and you knew all the disgrace you were 
heaping on a class who rejected your intimacy. 
None of this mock-surprise, sir ! If you compel 
me to it, I’ll fling open that door, call all your 
household around you, and before them I’ll in- 
sult you, so that even your serf-blood will rebel 
against the outrage.” 

“ This is madness — downright insanity, my 
lord,” said MidchikofF, rising and moving to- 
ward the bell. 

“Not so, sir,” said Norwood, interposing. 
“My passion is now mastered. You shall not 
escape on that pretense. There are my pistols 
— only one of them is loaded — take your choice 


— for I see that outside this room I shall seek 
in vain for satisfaction.” 

“ This would be a murder.” 

“ It shall be, by Heaven, if you delay !” cried 
Norwood. “ I have the right and the will to 
shoot you like a dog. If there be no honor, is 
there not even some manhood in your heart ? 
Take your weapon — you hesitate still — take 
that, then;” and he struck him with his open 
hand across the face. 

MidchikofF snatched the pistol convulsively, 
and, placing the muzzle on Norwood’s breast 
fired. With a wild cry, he staggered and fell 
dead upon the floor. The prince flung open 
the door, and rang the bell violently. In a mo- 
ment the room was filled with servants. “ Send 
Jocasse here,” said MidchikofF; and his chief 
secretary entered in all haste and trepidation. 
“This 5s an affair for the police, Jocasse,” said 
the prince, coolly. “ Send for the brigadier, 
and let him come to my room.” 

“ Suicide shows a great ‘ manque de savoir 
vivre ,’ ” said Haggerstone, as the news of the 
event was circulated through Florence. And 
the “ mot" survived the memory of its victim. 


CHAPTER LXX. 

“ THE SUMMONS .’ 5 


They who only knew Vienna in its days of 
splendor and magnificence, could scarcely have 
recognized that city as it appeared on the con- 
clusion of the great revolt which had just con- 
vulsed the empire. The great walls were rid- 
dled with shot and shell ; vast breaches in them 
opened out a view of even more dreadful ruin 
within ; streets choked up with fallen houses, and 
wide squares encumbered with blocks of mason- 
ry and blackened timbers. The terrible traces 
of barricade struggles still remained ; but more 
significant than all these, was the downcast, 
sorrow-struck look of a population, once known 
as the gayest and most light-hearted of Europe ! 

The air of suffering and poverty extended to 
every thing. No signs of the once luxury and 
wealth of that rich nobility. Not an equipage 
was to be seen ! The passing and repassing 
of troops gave the only movement observable in 
the streets. Strong guards and patrols marched 
past, with all the precaution and preparation of 
a state of war. The dragoons sat in their sad- 
dles, carbine in hand, as if but waiting for a 
signal to engage ; while, in the half-defiant stare 
of the populace, might be read the spirit of men 
who had not yet resigned themselves to defeat. 

Most of the shops were closed, and, even of 


those still open, the display of wares was scanty 
and miserable ; rather seeming as if the effort 
were made to conciliate the favor of the govern- 
ment, than with any hope of gain. The cafes 
were deserted except by the military, and they 
— far from indulging the jocund mirth and laugh- 
ter which was their wont — were now serious 
and anxious-looking, regarding the passers-by 
with a distrustful glance, and seeming as though 
they felt that the interval was less peace than 
an armistice. 

Cannon were in position on the Stephan’s 
Platz and the Graben, and the gunners stood 
ready, as if on parade. Officers of the staff, 
too, and orderlies, rode hastily to and fro, show- 
ing that no rash reliance was placed on the 
quietude of the capital, and that the hour of 
conflict, if it were to come, should not find them 
unprepared. In vain the stranger might have 
sought for that more than feudal splendor which 
once was the type of this brilliant city ! The 
gorgeous liveries of the Bohemian — or the more 
tasteful grandeur of the Magyar noble, were no 
longer to be seen. The varied costumes of the 
Banat and the Wallach, which gave such char- 
acter to many a rude equipage — the barbaric 
finery, which recalled the old struggles with 


335 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


the Crescent, which marked the rank of some 
border chieftain — was gone ! Vienna presented 
nothing but its troops of soldiers, and its mourn- 
ful, sad-looking population, moving listlessly 
about, or standing in groups to gaze on the 
disastrous ruins of their once proud city ! 

The “ Ambassador-street,” where formerly 
the armorial shields of every reigning house of 
Europe were wont to be displayed, was now 
almost untenanted. 

With some, the Imperial government was at 
open war ; with others, estrangement and cold- 
ness prevailed ; while some, again, were repre- 
sented by officials of inferior rank — all signs of 
troubled and precarious times, when kings no 
longer knew what future awaited them ! 

It was here, formerly, that the most brilliant 
society of the capital was to be found ; here, 
every night, the carriages were seen to throng, 
and the whole street glow with the glare of light 
Irom brilliant salons , or the red flame of the 
torches borne by the running footmen. The 
proud aristocracy of every land here met ; and 
names that recalled the great achievements of 
generals and statesmen, were heard in every 
announcement that resounded along those cor- 
ridors ! But a few of these palaces were now 
occupied, and for the most part were the quar- 
ters of the generals of the army. In front of 
one of the largest, at whose gate two sentinels 
stood, the street was littered with straw, while 
the closed shutters and drawn curtains showed 
that sickness and suffering were busy within. 
The frequent arrivals, and the passing and re- 
passing of messengers, evinced the interest the 
sufferer’s fate excited ; and among those who 
dismounted at the corner of the street, and with 
cautious steps approached the door, more than 
one member of the Imperial house was to be 
seen. He whose fortune inspired all these 
tokens of regard, was no great nor illustrious 
general, no proud and distinguished statesman 
— he was simply a young officer of hussars — a 
gallant soldier, whose fidelity had been proved 
under the most trying circumstances — our old 
acquaintance, Frank Dalton. Relapse after re- 
lapse had reduced his strength to the very verge 
of debility, and each day threatened to be his 
last. Worn down by pain and suffering, the 
young soldier bore a look of calm and even 
happy meaning. His character for loyalty had 
been not only vindicated by his blood, but 
through the aid of Walstein, it was shown that 
he could have known nothing of the conspiracy 
with which he was charged. Thus re-estab- 
lished in fair fame, he saw himself the object of 
every care that affection could bestow. 1 he old 
count seldom quitted him — Kate never left his 
bedside. Every attention of kindness, every 
suggestion of love, was bestowed upon him ; and 
a sick-bed was made the scene of more touching 
happiness than he had ever known in the proud- 
est hours of his health and vigor. Could he 
have seen his dear Nelly beside him, he had no 
more to wish for! To die, without pressing 
ner to his heart, without acknowledging all that 


he owed to her good counsels, was now his only 
sorrow ; and if, in the stillness of the sick-room, 
tears would flow heavily along his cheek, and 
drop, one by one, on his pillow, this was their 
secret source. 

The count had himself written to Nelly. 
Kate, too, had dispatched a letter, telling of 
Frank’s dangerous condition, and entreating her 
presence ; but no reply had been returned, and 
they already began to fear that some mishap 
had occurred, and were obliged to frame all 
manner of excuses for her absence. Mean- 
while, as his strength declined, his impatience 
increased, and his first question, as day broke, 
and his last, at night, were, “ What tidings of 
Nelly ?” 

All his faults and errors lay like a load 
upon his heart, till he could pour out the confes- 
sion to his dear sister. 

The post-hour of each morning was a moment 
of intense anxiety to him, and the blank look 
which met his eager glance was the signal for 
a depression that weighed down his heart during 
the day. From long dwelling on this source of 
sorrow, his mind grew painfully acute as to all 
that bore upon it; and sometimes he fancied 
that his uncle and Kate knew some dreadful fact 
of poor Nelly, and feared to communicate it. 
More than once had it occurred to him that she 
was dead — that she had sunk, broken-hearted 
and deserted ! He did not dare to whisper this 
suspicion, but he tried to insinuate his fears about 
her in a hundred ways. To his sickly fancy, 
their frankness seemed dissimulation, and the 
very grief they displayed, he read as the misery 
of an unrevealed calamity ! 

Kate with all a woman’s quickness saw what 
was passing in his mind, and tried her utmost 
to combat it; but all in vain. To no purpose 
did she open her whole heart before him, telling 
of her own sad history and its disappointments. 
In vain did she point to a bright future, when, 
strong and in spirits, Frank should accompany 
her in search of Nelly through every glen and 
valley of the Tyrol. The impression of some 
concealment was more powerful than all these, 
and he but heard them as tales invented to 
amuse a sick-bed. The morbid sensibility of 
illness gave a significance to every trivial inci- 
dent, and Kate dared not whisper in his pres- 
ence, nor even exchange a look with another, 
without exciting a whole flood of doubt and sus- 
picion in his mind. 

To allay, so far as might be, these disordered 
terrors, they assumed the utmost frankness in 
all intercourse with him, and even took pains to 
exhibit an undisguised freedom on every occa- 
sion. 

The letters which arrived by each morning’s 
post were always opened in his presence, and 
his prying, eager glances showed that the pre- 
caution was not unneeded. 

“ What is that?” cried he, suddenly, as Kate, 
after reading the address of a letter, hastily 
threw it on the table, and covered it with others. 
Let me see that, Kate. Who is it for 


336 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“It bears your name,” said she, anxiously, 
“ and has an Irish post-mark ; but the hand is 
not known to me.” 

The youth took the letter in his hand, and 
sat gazing on it for some minutes together. 

“ No,” said he, at length, “ I do not remem- 
ber to have seen the writing before. Read it, 
Kate.” 

She broke the seal, and at once exclaimed, 
“It is from Doctor Grounsell ! Frank — a very 
dear and kind friend.” 

She ran her eyes rapidly over the lines as she 
spoke, and twice her color came and went, and 
her hand trembled as it held the paper. 

“You have bad news for me ?” said the boy, 
with a slow but firm utterance, “ but so that it 
be not of Nelly, I can bear any thing 1” 

“It is not of Nelly,” said Kate, in a tremu- 
lous voice. 

“Then let me hear it,” said he, calmly. 

She tried to read, but the effort was beyond 
her strength ; and, although her lips moved, no 
sound issued from them. At last she gained 
sufficient strength to say, “ It would agitate you 
too much, my dear brother, to hear this now. 
Let us wait for a day or two, till you are strong- 
er, and better able to think about it.” 

“ I have told you already, that if it be not of 
Nelly, I can hear it with indifference. Read on, 
then, Kate.” 


“The meaning of it is this, Frank,” cried 
she, hastily. “ There was a fearful crime com- 
mitted some years back in Ireland — a relative 
of ours, named Godfrey, was murdered.” 

“ Yes — yes — I know it. Go on,” said he, 
bagerly. 

“ The circumstances have never yet come to 
light, and now, it would appear, some efforts 
are being made to connect our name with this 
dreadful act; and — and — in fact, Frank, Dr. 
Grounsell wishes to learn from you where we 
were residing at the period in question ; and if 
you be possessed of any letters or papers which 
could show the relations existing between our 
family and Mr. Godfrey.” 

“ You must let me read this for myself, Kate,” 
said Frank, calmly, taking the letter from her 
hands ; “ and now leave me for a while.” 

With trembling steps and sinking heart the 
young girl retired, to pass hours of intense anx- 
iety in her chamber. At last came a servant to 
say that her brother desired to see her. 

“I must set out for Ireland, Kate,” said the 
sick youth, as he arose from his chair. 

“For Ireland !” cried she, gazing with terror 
at his wasted and worn figure. 

“ A long journey, dearest, but I shall have 
strength for it, if you’ll be my companion !” 

“ Never to leave you, Frank,” cried she ; and 
fell sobbing in his arms. 




■ 







' * 1 * > 









. 


' v,fi 


CHAPTER LXXI. 


“ INISTIOGE.” 


Rich as Ireland is in picturesque river scenery, 
we know nothing more beautiful than the valley 
through which the Nore flows between Thomas- 
town and New Ross. The gently sloping mead- 
ows, backed by deep woods, and dotted with 
cheerful farm-houses, gradually give way to a 
bolder landscape as you descend the stream and 
enter a dark gorge, whose high beetling sides 
throw their solemn shade over the river, re- 
ceding at last to form a kind of amphitheatre, 
wherein stands the little village of Inistioge. 

More like a continental than an Irish hamlet, 
the cottages are built around a wide open space, 
planted with tall elms and traversed by many 
a foot-path ; and here, of a summer night, are 
to be seen the villagers seated or strolling about 
in pleasant converse — a scene of rural peace and 
happiness such as rarely is to be met with in our 
land of trial and struggle. Did our time or space 
admit of it, we would gladly loiter in that pleas- 
ant spot, gazing from that graceful bridge on 
the ivy-clad towers, the tall and stately abbey, 
or the rich woods of that proud demesne, which 
in every tint of foliage encircles the picture. 

The “ vale and winding river” were scenes 
of some of our boyhood’s happiest hours; and 
even years — those stern teachers — have not ob- 
literated the memory! Our task is not, how- 
ever, with these recollections, and we would 
now ask our reader to stand with us beneath 
the shadow of the tall elms, while the little vil- 
lage is locked in slumber. 

It is past midnight — all is still and tranquil — 
a faint moonlight flickers through the leaves, 
and plays a fitful gleam upon the river : one 
man alone is abroad, and he is seen to traverse 
the bridge with uncertain steps, stopping at mo- 
ments as if to listen, and then resuming his sol- 
itary watch. A light, the only one in the vil- 
lage, twinkles from a window of the little inn, 
and the door lies open, for in his impatience he 
has quitted his chamber to walk abroad in the 
night air. As the hours wear on, his anxiety 
seems to increase, and he starts and pauses at 
every sound of the wind through the trees, and 
every cadenco of the rushing river. At last he 
hears the tramp of a horse — he bends down to 
listen — it comes nearer and nearer, and in his 
feverish impatience he hastens in the direction 
of the coming noise— “Is that you, Michel?” he 
cries, in an eager accent. 

“Yes, D’Esmonde, it is I,” replies a voice; 
Y 


and the next moment the horseman has dis- 
mounted at his side. 

“ What have I not suffered since you left this, 
Michel?” said D’Esmonde, as he rested his fore- 
head on the other’s shoulder. “ There is not an 
image of terror my mind has not conjured up. 
Shame, ignominy, ruin, were all before me, and 
had you staid much longer away, my brain 
could not have borne it.” 

“ But D’Esmonde, my friend — ” 

“ Nay, nay, do not reason with me — what 1 
feel — what 1 suffer — has no relation to the calm 
influences of reason. I alone can pilot myself 
through the rocks and quicksands of this chan- 
nel. Tell me of your mission* — how has it 
fared ?” 

“Less well than I hoped for,” said the other, 
slowly. 

“I thought as much,” replied D’Esmonde, in 
a tone of deep dejection. 

“ You saw him ?” 

“ Yes, our interview lasted nigh an hour. He 
received me coldly, but courteously, and entered 
into the question with a kind of calm acquies- 
cence. that at first gave me good encourage- 
ment.” 

“ To end in disappointment !” cried D’Es- 
monde, bitterly ; and the other made no reply. 

“ Go on, Michel,” said the abbe, after a pause : 
“tell me all.” 

“ I began,” resumed the other, “ by a brief 
reference to Godfrey's murder, and the impen- 
etrable mystery in which, up to this hour, it. 
would appear to be vailed. I related all that 
you had told me of the relationship between him 
and the Daltons, and the causes which had bro- 
ken off their friendship. With these he seemed 
conversant ; though I am unable to say whether 
he knew more or less than what I was commu- 
nicating. I dwelt as long and as forcibly as I 
deemed safe on the character and habits of old 
Dalton — hinting at his reckless, unprincipled ca- 
reer, and the wild and lawless notions he enter- 
tained on erery subject. To my great surprise, 
and I confc s to my discomfiture, he stopped me 
short by saying, 

‘“You would imply, then, that he was th© 
guilty man ?’ 

“‘You go too fast, Mr. Grounsell,’ said I, 
calmly ; ‘ I have come to confer and take coun- 
sel with you, not to form rash or hasty notions- 
on a matter of such deep- gravity. If the cir 


338 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE, 


cumstances I shall lay before you possess the 
same importance in your eyes that they do in 
mine, it may be that your own conclusions will 
be even more than suspicions. I then entered 
upon the story of Meckins, and how a comrade 
of his, an Irishman, called Noonan, confessed to 
him that he was the murderer of Mr. Godfrey ; 
that he had never known him, nor had any in- 
tercourse with him ; but was Employed for the 
act by old Dalton, who was then residing at 
Bruges. This Noonan, who was possessed of 
several letters of Dalton’s, had joined a Genoese 
vessel, fitted out for the slave-trade, and was 
killed in action. Meekins had frequent conversa- 
tions with him on the subject of the murder, and, 
although a stranger from another country, knew 
every detail of the scene and locality perfectly 
from description.’ 

“ ‘ Meekins is still living ?’ asked Dr. Groun- 
sell. 

“ ‘ Living, and now here,’ replied I ; at which 
he gave a start of surprise, and I think of alarm. 

“ ‘ Is he ready to substantiate his statement 
on oath ?’ said he. 

“ ‘That he could do so, I have no doubt,’ re- 
plied I ; ‘that he will, or that he ought, is per- 
haps a matter for calm reflection.’ 

“ ‘How do you mean ?’ said he, hastily. ‘ If 
what he alleges be true, can there be any hesi- 
tation as to its publicity ?’ 

“‘On that there may be grave doubts, sir,’ 
said I. ‘ They, whom the law could have held 
responsible are already gone before another judg- 
ment-seat. Their guilt or innocence have been 
proven, where deception or error exist not ! It 
is only their blameless descendants that could 
now pay the penalty of their crime ; and it may 
well be matter for consideration whether they 
should be exposed to the world’s shame, to ex- 
piate that wherein they had no share — ’ 

“ ‘Do you yourself believe this man’s story?’ 
asked he, abruptly. 

“ ‘I see no reason to discredit it,’ was my an- 
swer. ‘ There are moments when doubt is more 
difficult than belief, and this is one of them. He 
has never varied in his narrative — he tells it to- 
day as he told it yesterday — he details family 
circumstances that defy invention, and mentions 
events and incidents that all tally with facts.’ 

“ ‘ Where was he himself at the time of the 
murder?’ 

“‘In South America,’ he says, ‘He had 
joined one of those patriot expeditions which 
sailed from Ireland to join Bolivar.’ 

“ ‘ This he can prove, of course ?’ observed 
he, shrewdly. 

“‘I conclude he can,’ replied 1; ‘it never 
occurred to me to •question it.’ 

“ There was an interval after this in which 
neither of us spoke ; at last he said, ‘ May I ask 
how you became acquainted with this man — 
Meekins ?’ 

“ ‘ Through a brother clergyman, who was 
the means of saving his life abroad.’ 

“ ‘ And the intention is,’ rejoined he, in a slow 
and deliberate voice, ‘ that we should, while be- 


lieving this man’s statement, keep it secret ? 
i Would not that amount to a very grand offense 
— the compromise of a felony ?’ 

“ I hesitated as he said this, not knowing 
well which way the discussion might turn ; at 
last I replied, ‘ Meekins might refuse his evi- 
dence — he might deny that he had ever made 
these revelations.’ 

“ ‘In other words,’ said he, ‘ he prefers to sell 
his testimony for a better price than a court of 
justice would pay for it.’ 

“ ‘You do not suppose that I could be a party 
to — ’ 

“ ‘Nay, nay,’ cried he, interrupting me; ‘not 
on such grounds as these ; but I can well con- 
ceive your feeling strongly interested for the 
blameless and unhappy children. The only 
question is, how far such sympathies can be 
indulged against the direct claims of justice?” 

“ There was a dispassionate calmness in the 
tone he spoke this, that disarmed my suspicions, 
D’Esmonde ; and it was only when I had left 
him and was on my way back here, that I per- 
ceived what may, perhaps, have been a very 
great error ; for I at once proceeded to lay be- 
fore him the course I would counsel, and how, 
by the employment of a very moderate sum, this 
fellow could be induced to emigrate to America, 
never to return. After pushing this view with 
all the force I could. I at last avowed, as if driv- 
en to the confession, that another motive had also 
its weight with me — which was, that my friend 
and brother priest, the same who rescued Meek- 
ins from his fate, was the natural son of Mr. 
Godfrey, educated and brought up at his cost, 
and maintained till the period of his death with 
every requisite of rank and station ; that. Meek- 
ins knew this fact, and would publish it to the 
world, if provoked to it, and that thus my friend’s 
position at the Court of Rome would be utterly 
ruined. 

“ ‘He is a monsignore, then?’ asked Groun- 
sell. 

“ ‘ He is,’ replied I, ‘ and may even yet be 
more than that.’ ” 

“ This was rash, Michel — this was all im- 
prudence,” said D’Esmonde, with a heavy sigh. 
“ Go on ; what said he then ?” 

“ He waited while I told him, that we sought 
for no advantages on the score of this relation- 
ship ; that we preferred no claims whatever 
against the estate of Mr. Godfrey; that we only 
sought to bury in oblivion a great crime, and to 
prevent the publicity of a great shame. 

“ It is vour belief, then,’ said he, staring me 
fully in the face, ‘that Dalton was guilty?’ 

“‘From what is before me,’ replied I, ‘it is 
hard to reject that conclusion.’ 

“ ‘And this was an act of pure revenge ?’ 

“ ‘Less that, perhaps, than the hope of suc- 
ceeding to the property by some will of early 
date; at least, such is the version Meekins’s in 
formant gave him.’ 

“ ‘Ay, ay,’ said he, ‘that would constitute a 
motive, of course.’ 

“ ‘ Your advice is, then, that we should make 


339 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


terms with this fellow ? Is this also your 
friend’s counsel ?’ 

U ‘I scarcely can tell you,’ replied I. ‘My 
friend is not in any sense a worldly man. His 
whole thoughts are centred in the cause he 
serves, and he could only see good or evil in its 
working on the Church. If his cousins — ’ 

“ ‘ His cousins !’ 

“‘Yes, the Daltons — for they are such — 
deem this the fitting course, he is ready to 
adopt it. If they counsel differently, I can al- 
most answer for his compliance.’ 

“‘You can give me time to communicate 
with Dalton ? He is at Vienna.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, if you agree with me in this view of 
the case, and think that such will be Dalton’s 
opinion also; otherwise it will be difficult to 
secure this fellow’s secrecy much longer. He 
knows that he is in possession of a deeply im- 
portant fact; he feels the impunity of his own 
position; and to-morrow or next day he may 
threaten this, that, or t’other. In fact, he be- 
lieves that Lad} r Hester Onslow herself has no 
title to the estate, if he were disposed to reveal 
all he knows.’ 

“ 4 Can I see him ?’ asked Grounsell. 

“ ‘ Of course you can ; but it would be use- 
less. He would affect an utter ignorance of 
every thing, and deny all knowledge of what 
we have been talking.’ 

44 4 You will give me some hours to think over 
this ?’ asked he, after a pause. 

“ 4 1 had rather that you could come to a 
quicker resolve,’ said I ; 4 the fellow’s manner 
is menacing and obtrusive. 1 have, perhaps, 
too long delayed this visit to you; and should 
he suspect that we are hesitating, he may go 
before a magistrate, and make his deposition 
before we are aware of it.’ 

44 4 You shall hear from me this evening, sir. 
Where shall I address my note ?’ 

4 4 4 The Rev. Michel Cahill — the Inn at Inis- 
tioge,’ replied I. And so we parted.” 

44 We must leave this at once, Michel,” said 
D’Esmonde, after a brief interval of silence. 
44 Grounsell may possibly come over here him- 
self. He must not see me; still less must he 
meet with Meekins. We have gone too fast 
here — much too fast.” 

44 But you told me that we had not a moment 
to lose.” 

44 Nor have we, Michel ; but it is as great 
an error to overrun your game as to lag behind 
the scent. I distrust this doctor.” 

44 So do I, D’Esmonde. But what can he 
do?” 

44 We must quit this place,” said the other, 
not heeding the question. 44 There is a small 
wayside public, called the 4 Rore,’ about five 
miles away. We can wait there for a day, at 
least. I almost wish that we had never em- 
barked in this, Michel,” said he, thoughtfully. 
“I am seldom faint-hearted, but I feel I know 
not what of coming peril. You know well that 
this fellow Meekins is not to be depended on. 
When he drinks he would reveal any and every I 


thing. I myself can not determine whether to 
credit or reject his testimony. His insolence at 
one moment, his slavish, abject terror at another, 
puzzle and confound me.” 

44 You have been too long an absentee from 
Ireland, D’Esmonde, or they would present no 
difficulties to your judgment. At every visit I 
make to our county jail I meet with the self- 
same natures, torn, as it were, by opposite in- 
fluences — the passions of this world, and the 
terrors of that to come.” 

44 Without the confessional, who could read 
them !” exclaimed D’Esmonde. 

44 How true that is !” cried the other. 44 What 
false interpretations, what mistaken views are 
taken of them ! And so is it — %ve, who alone 
know the channel, are never to be the pilots !” 

44 Say not so,” broke in D’Esmonde, proudly. 
44 We are, and we shall be ! Ours will be the 
guidance, not alone of them, but of those who 
rule them. Distrust what you will, Michel, be 
faint-hearted how you may, but never despair 
of the glorious Church. Her triumph is already 
assured. Look at Austria, at Spain, at all 
Northern Italy. Look at Protestant Prussia, 
trembling for the fate of her Rhine provinces. 
Look at England herself, vacillating between 
the game of conciliation, and the perils of her 
unlimited bigotry. Where are we not victori- 
ous? Ours is the only despotism that ever 
smote two-handed — crushing a monarchy here, 
and a people there — proclaiming divine right, 
or asserting the human inheritance of freedom ! 
Whose banner but ours ever bore the double 
insignia of Rule and Obedience ? — ours the 
Great Faith, equal to every condition of man- 
kind, and to every age and every people ! 
Never, never despair of it, !” 

D’Esmonde sat down, and covered his face 
with his hands ; and when he arose, his pale 
features and bloodless lips showed the strong 
reaction from a paroxysm of intense passion. 

44 Let us leave this, Michel,” said he, in a 
broken voice. “The little inn I speak of is not 
too distant for a walk, and if we start at once 
we shall reach it before daybreak. While you 
awake Meekins, and arrange all within, I will 
stroll slowly on before.” And, thus saying, 
D’Esmonde moved away, leaving the other to 
follow. 

D’Esmonde was more than commonly thought- 
ful, even to depression. ^He had been but a few 
days in Ireland, but every hour of that time had 
revealed some new disappointment to him. There 
was all that he could wish of religious zeal, 
there was devotion and faith without limit 
among the people ; but there was no unity of 
action, no combination of purpose, among those 
who led them. Discursive and rash efforts of 
individuals were suffered to disturb well-laid 
measures and reveal long-meditated plans. Vain 
and frivolous controversies in newspapers, petty 
wars of petty localities, wasted energies, and 
distracted counsels. There was none of that 
organization, that stern discipline, which at 
Rome regulated every step, and ordained every 


340 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


movement of their mighty host. “ This,” mut- 
tered he to himself, “ is an army without field- 
officers. Their guerilla notions must be hence- 
forth exchanged for habits of military obedience. 
Little think they that their future general is 
now the solitary pedestrian of a lonely road at 
midnight.” The recurrence to himself and his 
own fortunes was one of those spells which 
seemed to possess an almost magical influence 
over him. From long dwelling on the theme, 
he had grown to believe that he was destined 
by Heaven for the advancement, if not the actual 
triumph of the reat cause of the Church ; and 


that he, whose origin was obscure and ignoble, 
could now sit down at the council of the Princes 
of the Faith, and be heard, as one whose words 
were commands, was always sufficient evidence 
that he was reserved by fate for high achieve- 
ments. Under the spell of this conviction he 
soon rallied fr®m his late dejection, and his up- 
lifted head and proud gait now showed the am- 
bitious workings of his heart. “ Ay,” cried he, 
aloud — “ the first Prince of the Church who, for 
above a century, has dared them to defiance ! 
That is a proud thought, and well may nerve 
the spirit that conceives it to courageous action.” 


CHAPTER LXXII. 

“ THE MANOR HOUSE OF CORRIG O’NEAL.” 


While we leave, for a brief space, the Abbe 
D’Esmonde to pursue his road, we turn once 
more to the peaceful scene wherein we found 
him. Mayhap there be in this dalliance some- 
thing of that fond regret, that sorrowful linger- 
ing with which a traveler halts to look down 
upon a view he may never see again ! Yes, 
dear reader, we already feel that the hour of 
our separation draws nigh, when we shall no 
more be fellow-journeyers, and we would fain 
loiter on this pleasant spot, to tarry even a few 
moments longer in your company. 

Passing downward beneath that graceful 
bridge, which with a rare felicity seems to 
heighten, and not to impair the effect of the 
scene, the river glides along between the rich- 
wooded hills of a handsome demesne, and where, 
with the most consummate taste, every tint of 
foliage, and every character of verdure, has 
been cultivated to heighten the charm of the 
landscape. The spray-like larch, the wide- 
leaved sycamore, the solemn pine, the silver- 
trunked birch, all blending their various hues 
into one harmonious whole — the very perfection 
of a woodland picture. As if reluctant to leave 
so fair a scene, the stream winds and turns in a 
hundred bendings — now forming little embay- 
ments among the jutting rocks, and now, list- 
lessly loitering, it dallies with the gnarled trunks 
of some giant beech that bends into the flood. 

Emerging from these embowering woods, the 
river enters a new and totally different tract of 
country — the hills, bare of trees, are higher, 
almost mountainous in character, with outlines 
fantastic and rugged. These, it is said, were 
once wooded too ; they present, however, little 
remains of forest, save here and there a low 
oak scrub. The sudden change from the leafy 


groves, ringing with many a “wood-note wild,” 
to the dreary silence of the dark region, is com- 
plete as you approach the foot of a tall mount- 
ain, at whose base the river seems arrested, and 
is in reality obliged by a sudden bend to seek 
another channel. This is Corrig O’Neal ; and 
here, in a little amphitheatre, surrounded by 
mountains of lesser size, stood the ancient manor 
of which mention has been more than once made 
in these pages. 

It is but a short time back, and there stood 
there an ancient housed whose character, half- 
quaint, half-noble, might have made it seem a 
French chateau. The tall, high-pitched roof, 
pierced with many a window — the richly-orna- 
mented chimneys — the long terrace, with its 
grotesque statues, and the intricate traceries of 
the old gate itself — all evidencing a taste not 
native to our land. The very stiff and formal 
avenue of lime-trees that led direct to the door 
had reference to a style of landscape-gardening 
more consonant with foreign notions, even with- 
out the fountains, which, with various strange 
groups of allegorical meaning, threw their tiny 
jets among the drooping flowers. At the back 
of the house lay a large garden, or rather what 
constituted both garden and orchard ; for, al- 
though near the windows trim flower-beds and 
neatly-graveled walks were seen, with rare and 
blossoming plants, as you advanced, the turf 
usurped the place of the cultivated ground, and 
the apple, the pear, and the damson formed a 
dense, almost impenetrable shade. 

Even on the brightest day in spring, when 
the light played and danced upon the shining 
river, with blossoming cherry-trees, and yellow 
crocuses in the grass, and fair soft daffodils 
along the water’s edge, smiling like timid beau- 


341 


THE DALTONS; OR THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


ties, when, the gay May-fly skimmed the rip- 
pling stream, and the strong trout splashed up 
to seize him — even then, with life, and light, 
and motion all around, there was an air of sad- 
ness on this spot — a dreary gloom, that fell upon 
the spirits less like sudden grief than as the 
memory of some old and almost forgotten sor- 
row. The frowning aspect of that stern mount- 
ain, which gave its name to the place, and 
which, in its rugged front, showed little touch 
of time or season, seemed to impress a. mourn- 
ful character on the scene. However it w r as, 
few passed the spot without feeling its influence, 
nor is it likely that now, when scarcely a trace 
of its once-inhabited home remains, its aspect is 
more cheering. 

In a dark wainscoted room of this gloomy 
abode, and on a raw and dreary day, our old 
acquaintance Lady Hester sat, vainly endeavor- 
ing between the fire and the screen to keep her- 
self warm, while shawls, muffs, and mantles were 
heaped in a most picturesque confusion around 
her. A French novel and a Blenheim spaniel 
lay at her feet, a scarce-begun piece of em- 
broidery stood at one side of her, and an un- 
tasted cup of coffee on a small table at the other. 
Pale, and perhaps seeming still more so from 
the effect of her deep mourning, she lay back in 
her chair, and, with half-closed lids and folded 
arms, appeared as if courting sleep — or at least 
unconsciousness. 

She had lain thus for above half an hour, when 
a slight rustling noise — a sound so slight as to 
be scarcely audible — caught her attention, and, 
without raising her head, she asked, in a faint 
tone, 

“ Is there any one there?” 

“ Yes, my lady. It is Lisa,” replied her maid, 
coming stealthily forward, till she stood close be- 
hind her chair. 

“ Put some of that thing — peat, turf, or what- 
ever it is — on the fire, child. Has the post ar- 
rived ?”• 

“ No. my lady; they say that the floods have 
detained the mails, and that they will be fully 
twelve hours late.” 

“Of course they will,” sighed she, “and, if 
there should be any thing for me , they will be 
carried away.” 

“ I hope not, my lady.” 

“ What’s the use of your hoping about it, 
child ? or, if you must hope, let it be for some- 
thing worth while. Hope that we may get away 
from this miserable place, that we may once 
more visit a land where there are sunshine and 
flowers, and live where it repays one for the 
bore of life.” * 

“ I’m sure I do hope it with all my heart, my 
lady.” 

“ Of course you do, child. Even you must 
feel the barbarism of this wretched country. 
Have those things arrived from Dublin yet?” 

“Yes. my lady; but you never could wear 
them. The bonnet is a great unwieldy thing, 
nearly as big, and quite as heavy, as a Life 
Guardsman’s helmet, and the mantle is precise- 


ly like a hearth-rug, with sleeves to it. They 
are specially recommended to your ladyship’s 
notice, as being all of Irish manufacture.” 

“ What need to say so?” sighed Lady Hes- 
ter. “ Does not every lock on every door, every 
scissors that will not cut, every tongs that will 
not hold, every parasol that turns upside down, 
every carriage that jolts, and every shoe that 
pinches you, proclaim its nationality?” 

“ Dr. Grounsell says, my lady, that all the fault 
lies in the wealthier classes, who prefer every 
thing to native industry.” 

“ Dr. Grounsell’s a fool, Lisa. Nothing shall 
ever persuade me that Valenciennes and Brus- 
sels are not preferable to that ornament for fire- 
places and fauteuils, called Limerick lace, and 
Genoa velvet a more becoming wear, then the 
O’Connell frieze — but have done with this dis- 
cussion, you have already put me out of temper 
by the mention of that odious man’s name.” 

“ I at least saved your ladyship from seeing 
him this morning.” 

“ How so? Has he been here?” 

“ Twice already, my lady; and threatens an- 
other visit. He says that he has something very 
important to communicate, and his pockets were 
stuffed with papers.” 

“ Oh, dear me ! how I dread him and his 
parchments ! Those terrible details, by which 
one discovers how little is bequeathed to them, 
and how securely it is tied up against every pos- 
sibility of enjoying it. I’d rather be a negro 
slave on a coffee plantation, than a widow with 
what is called a ‘ high-principled trustee’ over 
my fortune.” 

“ There he comes again, my lady ; see how 
fast he is galloping up the avenue.” 

“ Why will that pony never stumble ? Amia- 
ble and worthy folks break their necks every day 
of the week — fathers of families and unbeneficed 
clergymen. Assurance companies should cer- 
tainly deal lightly with crusty old bachelors and 
disagreeable people, for they bear charmed 
lives.” 

“ Am I to admit him, my lady ?” asked the 
maid, moving toward the door. 

“ Yes — no — I really can not — but perhaps I 
must. It is only putting oflf the evil day. Yes, 
Lisa, let him come in, but mind that you tell 
him I am very poorly — that I have had a wretch- 
ed night, and am quite unfit for any unpleasant 
news, or indeed for any thing like what he calls 
business. Oh dear ! oh dear ! the very thought 
of parchment will make me hate sheep to the 
last hour of my life, and I have come to detest 
the very sight of my own name, from signing 
‘ Hester Onslow’ so often.” 

It must be said, there was at least no hypoc- 
risy in her ladyship's lamentations ; if the cause 
of them was not all-sufficient, the effects were 
to the full what she averred, and she was, or be- 
lieved herself to be, the most miserable of wo- 
men. Sir Stafford’s will had bequeathed to her 
his Irish property, on the condition of her resid- 
ing upon it at least six months every two years 
— a clause whose cruelty, she — whether with 


342 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


or without reason we know not. — attributed to 
the suggestion of Doctor Grounsell. To secure 
eighteen months of unlimited liberty she was 
undergoing her captivity in what, it must be 
acknowledged, was a spirit the very reverse of 
that the testator intended. So far from taking 
any interest in the country, its people, or its 
prospects, she only saw in it a dreary imprison- 
ment, saddened by bad weather, bad spirits, and 
solitude. Nor were her griefs all causeless. 
Her position was greatly fallen from the posses- 
sion of a fortune almost without bounds to the 
changeful vicissitudes of an Irish property. Nor- 
wood’s dreadful death, wrapped in all the mys- 
tery which involved it, shocked her deeply, al- 
though in reality the event relieved her from a 
bondage she had long felt to be insupportable ; 
and lastly, the Romanism, in which she had, so 
to say, invested all her “ loose capital” of zeal 
and enthusiasm, had become a terrible disap- 
pointment. The gorgeous splendor of Italian 
Popery found a miserable representative in Irish 
Catholicism. The meanly-built Irish chapel, 
with its humble congregation, was a sorry ex- 
change for the architectural grandeur and costly 
assemblage gathered within the Duomo of Flo- 
rence. or beneath the fretted roof of “ St. John 
of Lateran.” 

For all the sublimity of pealing music, of full- 
toned choirs, of incense floating up into realms 
of dim distance, there were but the nasal sing- 
song of a parish priest, and the discordant twang 
of a dirty acolyte ! And what an interval sep- 
arated the vulgar manners of the village curate 
from the polished addresses of the Roman car- 
dinal ! How unlike the blended pretension and 
cringing slavery of the one was to the high-bred 
bearing and courtly urbanity of the other. A 
visit from “Father John” was an actual inflic- 
tion. To receive his eminence was not only 
an honor but a sincere pleasure. Who, like him, 
to discuss every topic of the world and its fash- 
ionable inhabitants ! touching every incident with 
a suave mellowness of remark that, like the light 
through a stained-glass window warmed, while 
it softened that which it fell upon. Who could 
throw over the frailties of fashion such a grace- 
ful cloak of meek forgiveness, that it seemed 
actually worth while to sin, to be pardoned with 
such affection. All the pomp and circumstance 
of Romanism, as seen in its own capital, asso- 
ciated with rank, splendor, high dignity, and 
names illustrious in story, form a strong con- 
trast to its vulgar pretensions in Ireland. It is 
so essentially allied to ceremonial and display, 
that when these degenerate into poverty and 
meanness, the effect produced is always border- 
ing on the ludicrous. Such, at least, became 
the feeling of Lady Hester as she witnessed those 
travesties of grandeur, the originals of which had 
left her awe-stricken and amazed. 

Shorn of fortune, deprived of all the illusions 
which her newly-adopted creed had thrown 
around her, uncheered by that crowd of flatter- 
ers which used to form her circle, is it any won- 
der if her spirits and her temper gave way, and 


that she fancied herself the very type of misery 
and desertion? The last solace of such minds 
is in the pity they bestow upon themselves; and 
here she certainly excelled, and upon no occasion 
more forcibly than when receiving a visit from 
Doctor Grounsell. 

“ Doctor Grounsell, my lady,” said a servant; 
and, at the words, that gentleman entered. 

A heavy great-coat, with numerous capes, a 
low-crowned glazed hat, and a pair of old-fash- 
ioned “ hessians,” into which his trowserS were 
tucked, showed that he had not stooped to any 
artifices of toilet to win favor with her ladyship. 
As she bowed slightly to him, she lilted her 
glass to her eye, and then dropped it suddenly 
with a gentle simper, as though to say that, an- 
other glance would have periled her gravity. 

“ Winter has set in early, madam,” said he, 
approaching the fire. “ and with unusual severity. 
The poor are great sufferers this year.” 

“ I’m sure I agree with you,” sighed Lady 
Hester. “I never endured such cold before!” 

“ I spoke of the ‘ poor,’ madam,” retorted he, 
abruptly. 

“ Well, sir, and has any one a better right to 
respond in their name than I have ? Look 
around you, see where I’m living, and how, and 
then answer me !” 

“Madam,” said Grounsell, sternly, and fix- 
ing his eyes steadily on her as he spoke, “ I have 
ridden for two hours of this morning over part 
of that tract which is your estate. I have visit- 
ed more than a dozen — I will not call them 
houses, but hovels. There was fever in some, 
ague in others, and want, utter want in all ; and 
yet I never heard one of the sufferers select him- 
self as the special mark of misfortune, but rather 
allude to his misery as part of that common 
calamity to which flesh is heir. ‘God help the 
poor!’ was the prayer; and they would have 
felt ashamed to have invoked the blessing on 
themselves alone.” 

“ I must say, that if you have been to see 
people with typhus, and perhaps small-pox, it 
shows very little consideration to come and visit 
me immediately after, sir.” 

Grounsell’s face grew purple, but with a great 
effort he repressed the reply that was on his lips, 
and was silent. 

“ Of course, then, these poor creatures can 
pay nothing, sir.” 

“ Nothing, madam.” 

“Che bella cosa ! an Irish property!” cried 
she, with a scornful laugh ; “ and, if I mistake 
not, sir, it was to your kind intervention and 
influence that I am indebted for this singular 
mark of my husband’s affection ?” 

“ Quite true, madam. I had supposed it to 
be possible — just possible — that by connecting 
your personal interests with duties, that you 
might be reclaimed from a life of frivolity and 
idleness, to an existence of active and happy 
utility, and this, without any flattering estimates 
of your qualities, madam.” 

“ Oh, sir, this is a very needless protest,” 
said she, bowing and smiling. 


343 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“ I repeat, madam, that without any flatter- 
ing estimate of your qualities, I saw quite enough 
to convince me that kindness and benevolence 
were just as easy to you as their opposites.” 

Why, you have become a courtier, sir,” 
said she, with a smile of sly malice. 

“ I m sorry lor it, madam; I’d as soon be 
mistaken for a hairdresser or a dancing-master. 
But to return. Whether I was correct or not 
in my theory would appear to be of little mo- 
ment: another, and more pressing view of the 
case, usurping all our interests, which is no 
less, madam, than your actual right and title 
to this estate #t all.” 

Lady Hester leaned forward in her chair as 
he said this, and in a low but unshaken voice, 
replied, “ Do I understand you aright, sir — that 
the title to this property*is contested?” 

u Not yet, madam ; there is no claim set up 
as yet ; but there is every likelihood that there 
will be such. Rumors have gradually grown 
into open discussions — threatening notices have 
been sent to me by post, and stories, which at 
first I had deemed vague and valueless, have 
assumed a degree of importance from the details 
by which they were accompanied. In fact, 
madam, without any clew to the nature or di- 
rect drift of the plot, I can yet see that a formid- 
able scheme is being contrived, the great agent 
of which is to be menace.” 

“ Oh, dear, what a relief it would be to me, 
were I quite certain of all this !” exclaimed 
Lady Hester, with a deep sigh. 

“ What a relief, did you say ? — what a relief, 
madam?” cried Grounsell, in amazement. 

“ Yes, sir, that was precisely the word I 
used.” 

“Then I must have blundered most confound- 
edly, madam, in my effort to explain myself. 
I was endeavoring to show you that your claim 
to the estate might be disputed !” 

“ Very well, sir, I perfectly understood you.” 

“ You did, eh ? You perceive that you might 
possibly lose the property, and you acquiesce 
calmly — ” 

“ Nay, more, sir, I rejoice sincerely at the 
very thought of it.” 

“ Well, then, upon my — eh ? May the devil 
— I beg pardon, madam, but this is really such 
a riddle to me, that I must confess my inability 
to unravel it.” 

“Shall I aid you, sir?” said Lady Hester, 
with an easy smile on her features. “When 
bequeathing this estate to me, Sir Stafford ex- 
pressly provided, that if, from any political con- 
vulsion, Ireland should be separated from her 
union with Great Britain, or if by course of 
law a substantial claim was established to the 
property by another, that I should be recom- 
pensed for the loss by an income of equal amount 
derived from the estate of his son, George On- 
slow, at whose discretion it lay to allocate any 
portion of his inheritance he deemed suitable 
for the purpose.” 

“ All true, madam — quite true,” broke in 
Grounsell ; “ and the solicitor-general’s opinion 


is, that the provision is perfectly nugatory — not 
worth sixpence. It has not one single tie of 
obligation, and, from its vagueness, is totally 
inoperative.” 

“ In law, sir, it may be all that you say,” re- 
plied Lady Hester, calmly; “but I have yet to 
learn that this is the appeal to which Captain 
Onslow would submit it.” 

Grounsell stared at her; and, for the first 
time in all his life, he thought her handsome. 
That his own features revealed the admiration 
he felt, was also plain enough, and Lady Hes- 
ter was very far from being insensible to the 
tribute. 

“So that, madam,” cried he, at length, “you 
prefer insecurity to certainty.” 

“ Say rather, sir, that I have more confidence 
in the honorable sentiments of an English gen- 
tleman, than I have in the solvency of a poor 
and wretched peasantry. Up to this very hour 
I have known nothing except the claims upon 
myself. I don’t like the climate; and I am 
certain that my neighbors do not like me — in 
fact, I have neither the youth nor the enterprise 
suited to a new country.” 

“ Why, good Heavens ! madam, it isn’t New 
Zealand we’re in !” cried Grounsell, angrily. 

“Perhaps not,” sighed she, languidly; “but 
it is just as strange to me.” 

“I see, madam,” said Grounsell, rising, “my 
plan was a bad one — a wing in the Borghese 
Palace — a spacious apartment, of the Corsini, on 
the Arno — or even the first floor of the Mon- 
cenigo, at Venice, would have been a happier 
choice than a gloomy old mansion on the banks 
of an Irish river.” . 

“Oh ! do not speak of it, sir,” cried she, en- 
thusiastically. “ Do not remind me of starry 
skies, and the deep blue Adriatic, in this land 
of cloud and fog, where even the rain is ‘ dirty 
water.’ Pray make the very weakest defense 
of my claim to this inheritance. I only ask to 
march out with my baggage, and do not even 
stipulate for the honors of war. Let me have 
George’s address.” 

“You’ll not need it, madam; he will be here 
within a few days. He has been promoted to 
a majority, for his conduct in the field, and 
returns to England, covered with praise and 
honors.” 

“What delightful news, Doctor Grounsell; 
you are actually charming, this morning.” The 
doctor bowed stiffly at the compliment, and she 
went on : “I often thought that you could be 
amiable, if you would only let yourself; but, 
like the Cardinal Gualterino, you took up the 
character of bear, and ‘bear’ you would be at 
all times and seasons ; and then those horrid 
coats, that you would persist in wearing — how 
you ever got them of that odious brown, I can’t 
think — they must have dyed the wool to order 
— not but that I think your shoes were worst 
of all.” 

Grounsell understood too well the wordy ab- 
surdity with which her ladyship, on the least 
excitement, was accustomed to launch forth. 


344 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


quite forgetful of all the impertinence into which 
it betrayed her. He, therefore, neither inter- 
posed a remark, nor seemed in any way con- 
scious of her observation, but coldly waiting till 
she had concluded, he said : 

“ Some other of your ladyship’s friends are also 
expected in this neighborhood — the Daltons !” 

“ What — my dear Kate ?” 

“ Yes ; Miss Kate Dalton, accompanied by 
her brother and uncle. I have just been to 
order apartments for them in the hotel at Kil- 
kenny.” 

“ But they must come here. I shall insist 
upon it, doctor. This is a point upon which I 
will accept no refusal.” 

“ The occasion which calls them to Ireland, 
madam, and of which you shall hear all, here- 
after, would totally preclude such an arrange- 
ment.” 

“ More mystery, sir ?” exclaimed she. 

“ Another side of the same one, madam,” re- 
joined he, drily. 

What delightful news, to think I shall see 
my dearest Kate again. I am dying to know 
all about Russia, and if the ladies do wear pearls 
in morning toilet, and whether turquoises are 
only seen in fans and parasol handles. What 
splendor she must have seen !” 

“ Humph !” said Grounsell, with a short shrug 
of the shoulders. 

“ Oh ! I know you despise all these things, 
and you hate caviare. Then, I want to know 
about the prince ; why the match was broken 
off; and from what cause she refused that great 
settlement, some thousand rubles. How much 
is a ruble, by-the-way, doctor ?” 

“ I really can not tell you, madam,” said he, 
bluntly, who saw that she was once more “ wide 
afield.” 

“ She’ll tell me all herself, and every thing 
^about Russia. I want to hear about the knout, 
and the malachite, and that queer habit of gam- 
bling before dinner is announced. I’m sure I 
should like St. Petersburg. And the brother, 
what is he like?” 


“ I only know, madam, that ho is a great 
invalid, not yet recovered from his wounds !”• 

“ How interesting ; he was in the patriot 
army, was he not ?” 

“ He fought for the emperor, madam ; pray, 
make no mistake in that sense.” 

“ Oh, dear ! how difficult it is to remember 
all these things ; and yet I knew it perfectly 
when I was at Florence ! — all about the Kaiser- 
Jiigers, and the Crociati, and the Croats, and 
the rest of them. It was the Crociati, or the 
Croats — I forget which — ate little children. It's 
perfectly true ; Guardarelli, when he was a pris- 
oner, saw an infant roasted for Radetzky’s own 
table!” 

“ I would beg of you, madam, not to mention 
this fact to the field-marshal, Miss Kate Dalton’s 
uncle.” • 

“ Oh ! of course not ; and I trust he will not 
expect that we could provide him with such 
delicacies here. Now, doctor, how shall wo 
amuse these people: what can we do?” 

“ Remember, first of all. madam, that their 
visit to Ireland is not an excursion of pleasure — ” 

“ Oh, I can perfectly conceive that /” inter- 
rupted she, with a look of irony. 

“ I was about to remark that an affair of deep 
importance was the cause of their journey — ” 

“ More business !” broke she in again. “After 
all, then. I suppose I am not much more miser- 
able than the rest of the world. Every body 
would seem to have, what you call ‘affairs of 
importance.’ ” 

“ Upon my word, madam, you have made me 
totally forget mine, then,” said Grounsell. jump- 
ing up from his seat, and looking at his watch. 
“I came here prepared to make certain ex- 
planations, and ask your opinion on certain 
points. It is now two o’clock, and I have not 
even opened the matter in hand.” 

Lady Hester laughed heartily at his distress, 
and continued to enjoy her mirth as he packed 
up his scattered papers, buttoned his great-coat, 
and hurried away, without even the ceremony 
of a leave-taking. 

O 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 


“ THE RORE.” 


D Esmonde and his friend Michel sat beside 
the fire in a small parlor of the wayside public- 
house called the Rore. They were both thought- 
ful and silent, and in their moody looks might 
be read the signs of brooding care. As for the 
abhe, anxiety seemed to have worn him like 
sickness ; for his jaws were sunk and hollow, 
while around his eyes deep circles of a dusky- 
purple were strongly marked. 

It wa#; not without reason that they were 
thus moved; since Meekins, who hitherto rarely 
or never ventured abroad, had, on that morning, 
gone to the fair of Graigue, a village some few 
miles away, where he was recognized by a farm- 
er — an old man, named Lenahan — as the stew- 
ard of the late Mr. Godfrey. It was to no pur- 
pose that he assumed all the airs of a stranger 
to the country, and asked various questions 
about the gentry and the people. The old farm- 
er watched him long and closely, and went 
home fully satisfied that he had seen Black Sam 
— the popular name by which he was known 
on the estate. In his capacity of bailiff, Black 
Sam had been most unpopular in the country. 
Many hardships were traced to his counsels ; 
and it was currently believed that Mr. Godfrey 
would never have proceeded harshly against a 
tenant except under his advice. This charac- 
ter, together with his mysterious disappearance 
after the murder, were quite sufficient, in peas- 
ant estimation, to connect him with the crime ; 
and no sooner had Lenahan communicated his 
discovery to his friends, than they, one and all, 
counseled him to go up to the doctor, as Groun- 
sell was called on the property, and ask his 
advice. 

The moment Grounsell learned that the sus- 
pected man called himself Meekins, he issued a 
warrant for his arrest ; and so promptly was it 
executed, that he was taken on that very even- 
ing, as he was returning to the Rore. The 
tidings only reached the little inn after nightfall, 
and it was in gloomy confabulation over them 
that the two priests were now seated. The 
countryman who had brought the news was 
present when the police arrested Sam, and was 
twice called back into the parlor, as D’Esmonde 
questioned him on the circumstance. 

It was after a long interval of silence that the 
abbe. for the third time, summoned the peasant 
before him. 

“ You have not told me under what name 
they arrested him. Was it Meekins ?” 


“ The sergeant said, 4 You call yourself 
Meekins, my good man ?’ and the other said, 

‘ Why not ?’ ‘ Oh, no reason in life,’ says the 

sergeant, 4 but you must come with us, that’s 
all.’ 4 Have you a warrant for what you’re 
doing ?’ says he. ‘ Ay,’ says the polis ; 4 you 
broke yer bail — ’ ” 

“Yes, yes,” broke in D’Esmonde, “you men- 
tioned all that already. And Meekins showed 
no fear on being taken ?” 

44 No more than your reverence does this 
minute. Indeed, I never see a man take it so 
easy. ‘Mind what you’re doing,’ says he; ‘for 
though I’m a poor man, I have strong friends, 
that won’t see me wronged.’ And then he said 
something about one 4 Father Matthew ;’ but 
whether it was you. or that other clergyman 
there, I don’t know.” 

44 They took him to Thomastown ?” 

44 No, your reverence, to Kilkenny.” 

44 That will do, my good man,” said D’Es- 
monde, with a nod of his head ; and then, as 
the door closed behind him, added, “You see, 
Michel, I was right in my fears of this doctor. 
The evasive terms of his note, too, confirmed 
my suspicions — that 4 desire for further time in 
ft matter of such great difficulty.’ We have 
thrown him on the scent, and he is now in full 
cry after the game. Shame upon us! — shame! 
that such as he can foil us at our own weapons. I 
see his plan clearly enough. He is either in 
possession of some secret fact of this man’s early 
life, which can be employed as a menace to 
extort a confession from him, or he is about to 
work on him by bribery. Now, as to the for- 
mer, I am perfectly at ease. What I, with 
every agency of the Church, have failed to elicit, 
I can safely defy the layman’s craft to detect. 
As to the effect of a bribe, I am far from being 
so certain.” 

44 And in either case the result concerns you 
but little,” said Cahill. 44 The fellow has no- 
thing in his power against yon .” 

“Nothing.” said D’Esmonde. “1 never left 
myself in the hands of such as he ! It will, of 
course, be disagreeable to me that our inter- 
course should be made public. The Orange 
press will know how to connect our intimacy 
with a thousand schemes and subtleties that 
1 never dreamed of; and, more offensive still, 
the assumed relationship to Mr. Godfrey will 
afford a fruitful theme for sneer and sarcasm ! 
I foresee it all, my good Michel, and, worst 


346 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


of all, I perceive how this publicity will mar 
higher and nobler objects. The Sacred Col- 
lege will never make a Prince of the Church of 
one whose name has been sullied by the slang 
of journalism ! These are the dangers to be 
averted here. You must contrive to see this 
man at once — to assure him of our interest and 
protection, if he be but discreet and careful. 
He may safely deny all knowledge of the cir- 
cumstances to which we alluded. We are the 
only persons to whom he made these revelations. 
He has only to assume an ignorance of every 
thing. Impress this upon him, Michel ; for if 
they can involve him in a narrative, be it ever 
so slight or vague, these lawyers exercise a 
kind of magic power, in what is called cross- 
examination, and can detect a secret fact by 
tests as fine as those by which the chemist dis- 
covers a grain of poison. Would that I could 
see him myself; but this might be imprudent !” 

“Trust all to me, D’Esmonde ; and, believe 
me, that with men like him, habit has taught 
me better how to deal, than you, with all your 
higher skill, could accomplish. I will contrive 
to see him to-night, or early to-morrow. The 
under-turnkey was from my own parish, and I 
can make my visit as if to Aim.” 

“ How humiliating is it,” cried D’Esmonde, 
rising and pacing the room — “ how humiliating 
to think that incidents like these are to sway 
and influence us in our road through life ; but 
so it is, the great faults that men commit are 
less dangerous than are imprudent intimacies 
and ill-judged associations. It is not on the 
high bluff or the bold headland that the craft 
is shipwrecked, but on small sunken rocks — 
some miserable reef beneath the waves ! Could 
we but be ‘ penny-wise’ in morals, Michel, how 
rich we should be in knowledge of life ! I never 
needed this fellow — never wanted his aid in 
any way ! The unhappy mention of Godfrey s 
name — the spell that in some shape or other 
has worked on my heart through life — first gave 
him an interest in my eyes, and so, bit by bit, 
I have come to be associated with him, till, 
would you believe it, I can not separate myself 
from him. Has it ever occurred to you, Michel, 
that the evil one sometimes works his ends by 
infusing into the nature of some chance intimate 
that species of temptation by which courageous 
men are so easily seduced — I mean that love of 
hazard — that playing with fire, so intoxicating 
in its excitement ? I am convinced, that to me 
no bait could be so irresistible. Tell me that 
the earth is mined, and you invest it with a 
charm that all the verdure of ‘ Araby the Blest’ 
could never give it ! I love to handle steel 
when the lightning is playing ; not, mark me, 
from any contempt of life, far less in any spirit 
of blasphemous defiance, but simply for the glo- 
rious sentiment of peril. Be assured, that when 
all other excitements pall upon the mind, this 
one survives in all its plenitude, and, as the poet 
Says of avarice, becomes a good ‘ old gentle- 
manly vice.’ ” 

“ You will come along with me, D’Esmonde,” 


said the other, whose thoughts were concen- 
trated on the business before him. 

“ Yes, Michel, I am as yet unknown here ; 
and it may be, too, that this Meekins might 
wish to see me. We must take good care, 
while we avoid any public notice, that this fel- 
low should not think himself deserted by us.” 

“ The very point on which I was reflecting, 
D’Esmonde. We can talk fiver this as we go 
along.” 

As the two priests affected to be engaged on 
a kind of mission to collect subscriptions for 
some sacred purpose, their appearance or de- 
parture excited no feeling of astonishment, and 
the landlord of “ The Kore” saw them pre- 
pare to set out without expressing the least 
surprise. The little “ low-backed car,” the 
common conveyance of the people at fair and 
market, was soon at the door ; and seated in 
this, and well protected against the weather by 
rugs and blankets, they began their journey. 

“ This is but a sorry substitute for the scar- 
let-paneled coach of the cardinal, D’Esmonde,” 
said his companion, smiling. 

A low, faint sigh was all the answer the other 
made, and so they went their way in silence. 

The day broke drearily and sad-looking ; a 
thin, cold rain was falling, and, from the leaden 
sky above, to the damp earth beneath, all was 
gloomy and depressing. The peasantry they 
passed on the road were poor-looking and mean- 
ly clad. The houses on the wayside were all 
miserable to a degree ; and while his compan- 
ion slept, D’Esmonde was deep in his contem- 
plation of these signs of poverty. “ No !” said 
he, at last, as if summing up the passing re- 
flections of his own mind. “ This country is 
not ripe for the great changes we are prepar- 
ing. The gorgeous splendor of the Church 
would but mock this misery. The rich robe of 
the cardinal would be but an insult to the rag- 
ged coat of the peasant ! England must be our 
field. Ireland must be content with a mission- 
ary priesthood ! Italy, indeed, has poverty, but 
there is an intoxication in the life of that land 
which defies it. The sun, the sky, the blue 
water, the vineyards, the groves of olive, and 
the fig — the light-headedness that comes of an 
existence where no fears invade — no gloomy 
to-morrow has ever threatened. These are the 
elements to baffle all the cares of narrow for- 
tune, and hence the gifts which make men true 
believers ! In climates such as this, men brood, 
and think, and ponder. Uncheered from with- 
out, they turn within, and then come doubts 
and hesitations — the fatal craving to know that 
which they may not 1 Of a truth, these regions 
of the north are but ill-suited to our glorious 
faith, and Protestantism must shun the sun, as 
she does the light of reason itself.” 

“ What ! are you preaching, D’Esmonde ?” 
cried his friend, waking up at the energetic tone 
of the abbe’s voice. “ Do you fancy yourself ir» 
the pulpit ? But here we are, close to the town. 
We had better dismount now, and proceed on 
foot.” 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


Having dismissed their humble equipage, the 
two inends walked briskly along, and entered 
the city, which, even at this early hour, was 
filling for its weekly market. 

D Esmonde took up his quarters at once at a 
small inn close by the castle-gate, and the priest 
Cahill immedialely proceeded to the jail. He 
found no difficulty in obtaining access to his ac- 
quaintance the under-turnkey, but, to his disap- 
pointment, all approach to Meekins was strictly 
interdicted. The magistrates were here,” said 
the turnkey, ‘‘till past midnight with him, and 
that English agent of the Corrig O’Neal estate 
was along with them. What took place I can 
not even guess, for it was done in secret. I 
only overheard one of the gentlemen remark as 
he passed out, ‘ That fellow is too deep for us 
all ; we’ll make nothing of him.’ ” 

Cahill questioned the man closely as to what 
the arrest related, and whether he had heard of 
any allegation against Meekins ; but he knew 
nothing whatever, save that he had broken 
his bail some years before. The strictest watch 
was enjoined over the prisoner, and all inter- 
course from without rigidly denied. To the 
priest’s inquiries about Meekins himself, the 
turnkey replied, that he had never seen any man 
with fewer signs of fear or trepidation. “ What- 
ever they have against him,” added he, “he’s 
either innocent, or he defies them to prove him 
guilty.” 

Cahill’s entreaties were all insufficient to make 
the turnkey disobey his orders. Indeed, he show- 
ed that the matter was one of as much difficulty 
as danger, the chief jailer being specially inter- 
ested in the case by some observation of one of 
the justices. 

“ You can at least carry a message for me?” 
said the priest, at last. 

“ It’s just as much as I dare do,” replied the 
other. 

“ You incur no risk whatever, so far,” con- 
tinued Cahill. “ The poor man is my sacristan, 
and I am deeply interested for him. I only 
heard of his being arrested last night, and you 
see I’ve lost no time in coming to see after him. 
Tell him this. Tell him that I was here at day- 
break, and that I’ll do my best to get leave to 
speak with him during the day. Tell him, 
moreover, that, if I shouldn’t succeed in this, not 
to be down-hearted, for that we — a friend of 
mine and myself — will not desert him nor see 
him wronged. And, above all, tell him to say 
nothing whatever to the magistrates. Mind me 
well — not a syllable of any kind.” 

“I mistake him greatly,” said the turnkey, 
“ or he’s the man to take a hint quick enough, 
particularly if it’s for his own benefit.” 

“ And so it is — his own, and no other’s,” re- 
joined the priest. “ If he but follow this advice, 
I’ll answer for his being liberated before the 
week ends. Say, also, that I’d send him some 
money, but that it might draw suspicion on him; 
and for the present it is better to be cautious.” 

Before Cahill left the prison, he reiterated all 
his injunctions as to caution, and the turnkey 


347 

faithfully pledged himself to enforce them on the 
prisoner. 

“I will come again this evening,” said the 
priest, “ and you can tell me what he says ; for, 
as he has no friend but myself, I must not for 
sake him.” 

As Cahill gained the street, a heavy traveling- 
carriage, whose lumbering build bespoke a for- 
eign origin, passed by with four posters, and, 
sweeping across the market-place, drew up at 
the chief inn of the town. The priest, in idle 
curiosity, mingled with the lounging crowd that 
immediately gathered around the strange-looking 
equipage, where appliances for strength and 
comfort seemed blended, in total disregard to all 
facilities for motion. A bustling courier, with 
all the officiousness of his craft, speedily opened 
the door and banged down the steps, and a very 
tall old man, in what appeared to be an undress 
military frock, descended, and then assisted a 
young lady to alight. This done, they both gave 
their arms to a young man, whose wasted form 
and uncertain step bespoke long and severe ill- 
ness. Supporting him at either side, they assist- 
ed him up the steps and into the hall, while the 
bystanders amused themselves in criticising the 
foreigners, for such their look and dress declared 
them. 

“ The ould fellow with the white beard over 
his lip is a Roosian or a Proosian,” cried one, 
who aspired to no small skill in continental na- 
tionalities. 

“Faix! the daughter takes the shine out of 
them all,” cried another. “ She’s a fine cray- 
ture.” 

“ The brother was a handsome man before he 
had that sickness !” observed a third. “ ’Tis no 
use of his legs he has.” 

These frank commentaries on the new arriv- 
als were suddenly interrupted by the appearance 
of the old man on the steps of the hall-door, where 
he stood gazing down the street, and totally un- 
conscious of the notice he was attracting. 

“What’s the building yonder?” cried he, to 
the waiter at his side, and his accent, as he 
spoke, betrayed a foreign tongue. “ The Town- 
hall ! — ah, to be sure, 1 remember it now ; and, 
if I be not much mistaken, there is, at least there 
was, an old rickety stair to a great loft over- 
head, where a strange fellow lived, who made 
masks for the theatre — what’s this his name 
was?” The bystanders listened to these rem- 
iniscences in silent astonishment, but unable to 
supply the missing clew to memory. “ Are none 
of you old enough to remember Jack Ruth, the 
huntsman?” cried he. aloud. 

“ I have heard my father talk of him,” said a 
middle-aged man, “if it was the same that gal- 
loped down the mountain of Corrig O’Neal, and 
swam the river at the foot of it.” 

“ The very man,” broke in the stranger. 
“ Two of the dogs, but not a man, dared to fol- 
low! I have seen some bold feats since that 
day, but I scarcely think I have ever witnessed a 
more dashing exploit. If old Jack' has left any 
of his name and l’ace behind him,” said he, turn- 


i 


348 


ing to the waiter, “say 
would like to see him;” 
entered the inn. 

“ Who is this gentleman that knows the 
country so well ?” asked the priest. 

“ Count Dalton von Auersberg, sir,” replied 
the courier. “ His whole thoughts are about 
Ireland now, though I believe he has not been 
here for upward of sixty years.” 

“Dalton!” muttered the priest to himself, 
“ what can have brought them to Ireland ! 
D’Esmonde must be told of this at once !” And 
he pushed through the crowd and hastened back 
to the little inn. 

The abbe was engaged in writing as Cahill 
entered the room. 

“ Have you seen him, Michel ?” cried he, 
eagerly, as he raised his head from the table. 

“ No. Admission is strictly denied — ” 

“ 1 thought it would be so — I suspected what 
the game would be. This Grounsell means to 
turn the tables, and practice upon us the menace 
that was meant for him. I foresee all that he 
intends, but I’ll foil him ! I have written here 
to Wallace, the queen’s counsel, to come down 
here at once. This charge against old Dalton, 
in hands like his, may become a most formidable 
accusation.” 

“ I have not told you that these Daltons have 
arrived here — ” 

“ What ! Of whom do you speak?” 

“ The old Count von Dalton, with a niece and 
nephew.” 

D'Esmonde sprang from his seat, and for 
some seconds stood still and silent. 

“ This is certain, Michel ? You know this to 
be true?” 

“ 1 saw the old general myself, and heard 
him talk with the waiter.” 

“The combat will, then, be a close one,” 
muttered D’Esmonde. “ Grounsell has done 
this, and it shall cost them dearly. Mark me, 
Michel — all that the rack and the thumb-screw 
were to our ancestors, the system of a modern 


trial realizes, in our days. There never was a 
torture, the invention of man’s cruelty, as terri- 
ble as cross-examination ! I care not that this 
Dalton should have been as innocent as you are 
of this crime — it matters little if his guiltlessness 
appear from the very outset. Give me but two 
days of searching inquiry into his life, his habits, 
and his ways. Let me follow him to his fire- 
side, in his poverty, and lay bare all the little 
straits and contrivances by which he eked out 
existence, and maintained a fair exterior. Let 
me show them to the world, as I can show them, 
with penury within, and pretension without. 
These disclosures can not be suppressed as irrel- 
evant — they are the alleged motives of the crime. 
The family that sacrifices a child* to a hateful 
alliance — that sells to Austrian bondage the 
blood of an only son — and consigns to menial 
labor a maimed and sickly girl, might well have 
gone a step further in crime.” 

“D’Esmonde! D’Esmonde!” cried the other, 
as he pressed him down into a seat, and took his 
hand between his own ; “ these are not words 
of calm reason, but the outpourings of pas- 
sion.” 

The abbe made no answer, but his chest heaved 
and fell, and his breath came with a rushing 
sound, while his eyes glared like the orbs of a 
wild animal. 

“You are right, Michel,” said he, at last, 
with a faint sigh. “ This was a paroxysm of 
that hat6, which, stronger than all my reason, 
has actuated me through life. Again and again 
have I told you, that toward these Daltons I bear 
a kind of instinctive aversion. These antipathies 
are not to be combated — there are brave men 
who will shudder if they see a spider. I have 
seen a courageous spirit quail before a worm. 
These are not caprices, to be laughed at — they 
are indications full of pregnant meaning, could 
we but read them aright. How my temples 
throb — my head seems splitting. Now leave 
me, Michel, for a while, and I will try to take 
some rest.” 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 

that there’s one here 
and with this, he re- 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 


“A TALK OVER ‘ BY-GONES 


It was with a burst of joy that Lady Hester 
heard the Daltons had arrived. In the weari- 
some monotony of her daily life, any thing to do, 
any where to go, any one to see, would have 
been esteemed boons of great price ; what de- 
light, then, was it to meet those with whom she 
could converse of “ by-gone times,” and other 
lands ! — “ that dear Kate,” whom she really 
liked as well as it was in her nature to love 
any thing, from whom she now anticipated so 
much of that gossip, technically called “ news,” 
and into whose confiding heart she longed to 
pour out her own private woes ! 

The meeting was indeed affectionate on both 
sides ; and, as Lady Hester was in her most 
gracious of moods, Frank thought her the very 
type of amiability, and the old count pronounced 
her manners fit for the high ordeal of Vienna it- 
self. Perhaps our reader will be grateful if we 
leave to his imagination all the changeful moods 
of grief and joy, surprise, regret, and ecstasy, 
with which her ladyship questioned and listened 
to Kate Dalton’s stories ; throwing out, from 
lime to time, little reflections of her own, as 
though incidentally to show how much wiser 
years had made her. There are people who 
ever regard the misfortunes of others as mere 
key-notes to elicit their own sufferings ; and 
thus, when Kate spoke, of Russia, Lady Hester 
quoted Ireland. Frank’s sufferings reminded 
her of her own “nerves;” and poor Nelly’s un- 
known fate was precisely “ the condition of ob- 
scurity to which Sir Stafford’s cruel will had 
consigned herself.” 

Kate’s mind was very far from being at ease, 
and yet it was with no mean pleasure she found 
herself seated beside Lady Hester, talking over 
the past with all that varying emotion which 
themes of pleasure and sadness call up. Who 
has not enjoyed the delight of such moments, 
when, living again by-gone days, we laugh or 
sigh over incidents wherein once as actors we 
had moved and felt ? If time has dimmed our 
perceptions of pleasure, it has also softened down 
resentments, and allayed asperities. We can 
afford to forgive so much, and we feel, also, so 
confident of others’ forgiveness, and if regrets 
do steal over us, that these things have passed 
away forever, there yet lurks the flattering 
thought that we have grown wiser than we then 
were ! So is it the autobiographies of the fire- 
side are pleasant histories, whose vanities are 


all pardonable, and whose trifling is never un- 
graceful ! Memory throws such a softened 
light on the picture, that even bores become 
sufferable, and we extract a passing laugh from 
the most tiresome of our quondam “ Afflictives.” 

Had her ladyship been less occupied with her- 
self and her own emotions, she could not have 
failed to notice the agitation under which Kate 
suffered at many of her chance remarks. The 
levity, too, with which she discussed her be- 
trothal to MidchikofF, almost offended her. The 
truth was, Kate had half-forgotten the reckless, 
unthinking style of her friend’s conversation, 
and it required a little practice and training to 
grow accustomed to it again. 

“ Yes, my dear,” she went on, “ I have had 
such trouble to persuade people that it was no 
marriage at all, but a kind of engagement ; and 
when that horrid emperor wouldn’t give his con- 
sent, of course there was an end of it. You may 
be sure, my sweet child, I never believed one syl- 
lable of that vile creature’s story about George’s 
picture ; but somehow, it has got abroad, and 
that odious Heidendorf goes about repeating it 
every where. I knew well that you never cared 
for poor, dear George ! Indeed, I told him as much 
when he was quite full of admiration for you. 
It is so stupid in men — their vanity makes them 
always believe that if they persist, just persevere 
in their attachment, that the woman will at last 
succumb. Now, we have a better sense of these 
things, and actually adore the man that shows 
indifference to us — at least, I am sure that I do. 
Such letters as the poor boy keeps writing about 
you ! And about five months ago, when he was 
so badly wounded, and did not expect to recover, 
he actually made his will, and left you all he had 
in the world. Oh, dear !” said she, with a heavy 
sigh, “ they have generous moments, these men, 
but they never last ; and, by the way, I must 
ask your advice — though I already guess what 
it will be — about a certain friend of ours, who 
has had what I really must call the presumption 
— for after all, Kate, I think you’ll agree with 
me, it is a very great presumption — is it not, 
dear ?” 

“ Until you tell me a little more,” replied 
Kate, with a sigh, “I can scarcely answer.” 

“ Well, it’s Mr. Jekyl. You remember that 
little man that used to be so useful at Florence 
— not but he has very pretty manners, and a 
great deal of tact in society. His letters, too, 


350 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


are inimitably droll. I’ll show you some of 
them.” 

“ Oh ! then you are in correspondence with 
him ?” said Kate, slyly. 

“ Yes ; that is, he writes to me — and I — I 
sometimes send him a short note. In fact, it 
was the Abbe D’Esmonde induced me to think of 
it at all; and I was bored here, and so unhappy, 
and so lonely.” 

“ I perceive,” said Kate ; “ but I trust that 
there is nothing positive — nothing like an en- 
gagement ?” 

“ And why, dear ? whence these cautious 
scruples?” said Lady Hester, almost peevishly. 

“ Simply because he is very unworthy of you,” 
said Kate, bluntly, and blushing deep at her own 
hardihood. 

“ Oh, I’m quite sure of that,” said Lady Hes- 
ter, casting down her eyes. “ I know — I feel 
that I am mistaken and misunderstood. The 
world has always judged me unfairly ! You 
alone, dearest, ever comprehended me ; and even 
you could not guess of what I am capable ! If 
you were to read my journal — if you were just 
to see what sufferings I have gone through ; and 
then that terrible shock, though, I must say, 
D’Esmonde’s mode of communicating it was 
delicacy itself. A very strange man that abbe 
is, Kate. He now and then talks in a way that 
makes one suspect his affections are or have 
been engaged.” 

“ I always believed him too deeply immersed 
in other cares — ” 

“Oh, what a short-sighted judgment, child ! 
These are the minds that always feel most ! I 
know this, by myself ! during the last two years 
especially ! When I think what I have gone 
through ! The fate, not alone of Italy, but of 
Europe, of the world, I may say, discussed and 
determined at our fireside! Yes, Kate, I assure 
you, so it was. D’Esmonde referred many points 
to me, saying, ‘that the keener perception of a 
female mind must be our pilot here.’ Of course, 
I felt all the responsibility ; but never, never 
was I agitated. How often have I held the des- 
tiny of the Imperial House in my hands ! How 
little do they suspect what they owe to my for- 
bearance. But these are not themes to interest 
you, dearest ; and, of course, your prejudices 
are all Austrian. I must say, Kate, ‘ the uncle’ 
is charming ! Just that kind of dear old creat- 
ure, so graceful for a young woman to lean 
upon ; and I love his long white mustache ! 
His French, too, is admirable — that Madame de 
Sevigne turn of expression, so unlike modern 
flippancy, and so respectful to women !” 

“I hope you like Frank!” said Kate, with 
artless eagerness in her look. 

“ He’s wonderfully good-looking, without 
seeming- to know it ; but, of course, one can 
not expect that to last, Kate.” 

“Oh ! you can not think how handsome he 
was before this illness; and then, he is so gentle 
and affectionate.” 

“ There — there, child, you must, not make me 
fall in love with him, for you know all my sym- 


pathies are Italian ; and, having embroidered 
that beautiful banner for the ‘ Legion of Hope’ 
— pretty name, is it not ? I never could tolerate 
the ‘ Barbari.’ ” 

“ Pray, do not call them such to my uncle,” 
said Kate, smiling. 

“ Never fear, dearest. I’m in the habit of 
meeting all kinds of horrid people without ever 
offending a prejudice ; and, besides, I am bent 
on making a conquest of ‘ Mon Oncle ;’ he is 
precisely the species of adorer I like best. I 
hope he does not take snuff?” 

Kate laughed, as she shook her head, in sign 
of negative. 

From this Lady Hester diverged to all man- 
ner of reflections about the future — as to wheth- 
er she ought or ought not to know Midehikoff 
when she met him ; if the Villa of La Rocca 
were really Kate’s, or hers, or the property of 
somebody else ; who was Jekyl’s father, or if he 
ever had such an appendage; in what part of the 
Tyrol Nelly was then sojourning; was it pos- 
sible that she was married to the dwarf, and 
ashamed to confess it? — and a vast variety of 
similar speculations, equally marked by a bold 
indifference as to probability, and a total disre- 
gard to the feelings of her companion. Kate 
was, then, far from displeased when a messen- 
ger came to say that the general was alone in 
the drawing-room, and would esteem it a favor 
if the ladies would join him. 

“How do you mean, alone?” asked Lady 
Hester. “ Where is Mr. Dalton ?” 

“ Dr. Grounsell came for him, my lady, and 
took him away in a carriage.” 

“Poor Frank! he is quite unequal to such 
fatigue,” exclaimed Kate. 

“It is like that horrid doctor. His cruelties 
to me have been something incredible, at the 
same time there’s not a creature on my estate 
he does not sympathize with! You’ll see how 
it will be, dearest : he’ll take your dear brother 
somewhere where there’s a fever, or perhaps 
the plague — for I believe they have it here; 
and in his delicate state, he’s sure to catch it 
and die ! Mark my words, dearest Kate, and 
see if they’ll not come true.” And, with this re- 
assuring speech, she slipped her arm within her 
companion’s, and moved out of the room. 

It may be conjectured that it was not without 
weighty reasons Grounsell induced Frank, weary 
and exhausted as he was, to leave his home and 
accompany him on a cold and dreary night to the 
city jail. Although declining to enter upon the 
question before a third party, no sooner were 
they alone together than the doctor proceeded 
to an explanation. Meekins, who it appeared 
showed the greatest indifference at first, had, as 
the day wore on, grown restless and impatient. 
This irritability was increased by the want of 
his accustomed stimulant of drink, in which lat 
terly he had indulged freely — and it was in such 
a mood he asked for pen and paper, and wrote 
a few lines to request that young Mr. Dalton 
would visit him. Grounsell, who made a point 
to watch the prisoner from hour to hour, no 


351 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


sooner heard of this, than he hastened off to the 
inn with the intelligence. 

“ There is not a moment to be lost,” said he. 

This fellow, from all that I can learn, is but 
the tool ot others, who are bent on bringing be- 
fore the world the whole story of this terrible 
crime. A priest, named Cahill, and who for 
some time back has been loitering about the 
neighborhood, was at the jail this morning be- 
iore daybreak. Later on, he posted a letter for 
Dublin — the address of which I was enabled to 
see. It was to the eminent lawyer in criminal 
cases, Mr. Wallace. 

" That some great attack is in preparation, I 
have, then, no doubt; the only question is, whether 
the object be to extort money by threats of pub- 
licitjq or is there some deep feeling of revenge 
against your name and family ? 

The jailer, who is in my interest, gives me 
the most accurate detail of the prisoner’s conduct, 
and, although I am fully prepared to expect every 
species of duplicity and deceit from a fellow of 
this stamp, yet it is not impossible that, seeing 
himself to a certain extent in our power, he may 
be disposed to desert to our ranks. 

“ He asks you to come alone, and, of course, 
you must comply. Whatever be the subject of 
his revelations, be most guarded in the way you 
receive them. Avow utter ignorance of every 
thing, and give him reason to suppose that your 
great object here is to prevent the exposure and 
disgrace of a public trial. This may make him 
demand higher terms ; but at the same time he 
will be thrown upon fuller explanations to war- 
rant them. In fact, you must temper your man- 
ner between a conscious power over the fellow, 
and an amicable desire to treat with him. 

“ He has heard, within the last half-hour, that 
he has been recognized here by a former ac- 
quaintance, whose account of him includes many 


a circumstance of deep suspicion. It may have 
been this fact has induced him to write to you 
This you will easily discover in his manner. 
But hero we are at the gates, and once more. I 
say, be cautious and guarded in qvery thing.” 

“Well, Mr. Gray,” said Grounsell to the 
jailer, “ you see we have not delayed very 
long. Ill as he is, Mr. Dalton has accepted 
this invitation.” 

“ And he has done well, sir,” replied the 
jailer. “ The man’s bearing is greatly changed 
since morning : some panic has evidently seized 
him. There’s no saying how long this temper 
may last; but you are quite right to profit by it, 
while there is yet time.” 

“ Is he low and depressed, then ?” 

“ Terribly so, sir. He asked a while ago if 
any one had called to see him. Of course we 
guessed whom he meant, and said that a priest 
had been at the jail that morning, but only to 
learn the charge under which he was appre- 
hended. He was much mortified on being told 
that the priest neither expressed a wish to see 
or speak with him.” 

Grounsell gave a significant glance toward 
Frank, who now followed the jailer to the 
prisoner’s cell. 

“ He’s crying, sir ; don’t you hear him ?” 
whispered the jailer to Frank, as they stood 
outside the door. “You couldn’t have a more 
favorable moment.” And, thus saying, he rat- 
tled the heavy bunch of keys, in order to give 
the prisoner token of lvis approach ; and then, 
throwing open the door, called out, “Here’s the 
gentleman you asked for, Meekins ; see that you 
don’t keep him long in this cold place, for he is 
not very well.” 

Frank had but time to reach the little settle 
on which he sat down, when the door was closed, 
and he was alone with the prisoner. 


CHAPTER LXXV. 

“ THE JAIL.” 


Frank Dalton was in nowise prepared for 
the quiet and easy self-possession with which 
Meekins, after asking pardon for the libeity of 
his note, took a seat in front of him. Smoothing 
down his short and glossy blackjiair with his 
hand, he seemed to wait for Frank to open the 
conversation ; and, while there was nothing of 
insolence in his manner, there was an assured 
calmness, far more distressing to a j oung and 
nervous invalid. 

“You wished to see me, Meekins, said 
Frank, at last ; “ what can I do for you?” 

The man bent slightly forward on his chair, 
and fixing his keen and penetrating eyes, con- 


tinued steadily to stare at him for several sec- 
onds. 

“ You’re too young and too generous to have 
a double in you,” said he, after a long pause, 
in which it. seemed as if he were scanning the 
other’s nature ; “ and before we say any more, 
just tell me one thing. Did any one advise you 
to come here to-night?” 

“ Yes,” said Frank, boldly. 

“ It was that doctor — the man they call the 
agent — wasn’t it?” 

“Yes,” replied the youth, in the same tone. 

“Now, what has he against me ? — what 
charge does he lay to me?” 


352 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


“I know nothing about it,” said Frank; “but 
if our interview is only to consist in an exam- 
ination of myself, the sooner it ends the better.” 

“ Don’t you see what I’m at, sir? — don’t you 
perceive that I only want to know your honor’s 
feeling toward me, and whether what I’m to say 
is to be laid up in your heart, or taken down in 
writing, and made into an indictment ?” 

“ My feeling toward you is easily told. If 
you be an honest man, and have any need of me, 
I’ll stand by you ; if you be not an honest man, 
but the dishonesty only affects myself and my 
interests, show me any thing that can warrant 
it, and I’m ready to forgive you.” 

The prisoner hung down his head, and for 
some minutes seemed deeply immersed in re- 
flection. 

“Mr. Dalton,” said he, drawing his chair 
nearer to the bed, “I’ll make this business very 
short, and we needn't be wasting our time talk- 
ing over what is honesty, and what is roguery 
— things every man has his oVn notions about, 
and that depends far more upon what he has in 
his pocket than what he feels in his heart. I 
can do you a good turn, you can do me another. 
The service I can render you will make you a 
rich man, and put you at the head of your fam- 
ily, where you ought to be. All I ask in return 
is, a free discharge from this jail, and money 
enough to go to America. There never was a 
better bargain for you ! As for myself, I could 
make more of my secret if I liked — more, both 
in money — and — and — in other ways.” 

As he said these last few words, his cheek 
grew scarlet, and his eyes seemed to glisten. 

“I scarcely understand you.” said Frank. 
“ Do you mean — ” 

“ I’ll tell you w T hat I mean, and so plainly, 
that you can’t mistake me. I’ll make you what 
you have good right to be — the ‘ Dalton of Corrig 
O’Neal,’ the ould place, that w r as in your mother’s 
family for hundreds of years back. It isn’t tak- 
ing service in a foreign land you need be, but 
an Irish gentleman, living on his own lawful 
estate.” 

“And for this you ask — ” 

“ Just w'hat I told you — an open door and 
two hundred pounds down,” said the fellow, 
with a rough boldness that was close on inso- 
lence. “ I’ve told you already, that if I only 
wanted a good bargain, there’s others would 
give more — but that’s not what I’m looking for. 
I’m an old man,” added he, in a softened voice, 
“ and who knows w T hen I may be called away 
to the long account !” Then suddenly, as it 
were correcting himself for a weak admission, 
he w T ent on more firmly : “ That’s neither here 
nor there; the matter is just this : Will you pay 
the trifle I ask, for three thousand a year, if it 
isn’t more?” 

“ I must first of all consult wflth some friend — ” 

“ There ! that’s enough. You’ve said it now r ! 


Mr. Dalton, I’ve done with you forever,” said 
the fellow, rising, and walking to the window. 

“You have not heard me out,” said Frank, 
calmly. “ It may be that I have no right to 
make such a compact ; it may be that by such 
a bargain I should be compromising the just 
claims of the law, not to vindicate my own 
rights alone, but to seek an expiation for a 
dreadful murder !” 

“ I tell you again, sir,” said the fellow, with 
the same sternness as before — “I tell you again, 
sir, that I’ve done with you forever. The devil 
a day you’ll ever pass under that same roof of 
Corrig O’Neal — as the master of it ; and if you 
wish me to swear it, by the great — ” 

“Stop!” cried Frank, authoritatively. “You 
have either told me too much, or too little, my 
good man ; do not let your passion hurry you 
into greater peril.” 

“ What do you mean by that ?” cried the 
other, turning fiercely round, and bending over 
the back of the chair, -with a look of menace. 
“ What do you mean by too much, or too little?” 

“This has lasted quite long enough,” said 
Frank, rising slowly from the bed. “I foresee 
little benefit to either of us from protracting it 
further.” 

“ You think you have me now, Mr. Dalton,” 
said Meekins, with a sardonic grin, as he placed 
his back against the door of the cell. “ You 
think you know enough, now, as if I wasn’t 
joking all the w T hile. Sure what do I know of 
your family or your estate, except w T hat another 
man told me ? Sure I’ve no power to get back 
your property for you. I’m a poor man, with- 
out a friend in the world” — here his voice trem- 
bled and his cheek grew paler — “ it isn’t think- 
ing of this life I am at all, but what’s before me 
in the next !” 

“ Let me pass out,” said Frank, calmly. 

“ Of course I will, sir — I won’t hinder you,” 
said the other, but still not moving from the spot. 
“‘You said a while ago, that I told you too much, 
or loo little. Just tell me w^hat that means be- 
fore you go ?” 

“ Move aside, sir,” said Frank, sternly. 

“ Not till you answer my question. Don’t 
think you're back wuth your white-coated slaves 
again, where a man can be flogged to death for 
a look ! I’m your equal here, though I am in 
prison. Maybe, if you provoke me to it, I’d 
show myself more than your equal !” There 
was a menace in the tone of these last words 
that could not be mistaken, and Frank quickly 
lifted his hand to his breast ; but, quick as was 
the gesture, the other was too speedy for him, 
and caught his arm before he could seize the 
pistol. Just at this critical moment the key was 
heard to turn in the lock, and the heavy door 
was slowly opened. “There, take my arm, 
sir," said Meekins, slipping his hand beneath 
Frank’s. “ You’re far too weak to walk alone.” 


V 


CHAPTER LXXYI. 

“ A FENCING MATCH.” 


4 


“You came in time — in the very nick, Mr. 
Gray,” said Frank, with a quiet smile. “My 
iriend here and I had said all that wo had to say 
to each other.” 

“ Maybe you’d come again — maybe you’d 
give me five minutes another time?” whispered 
Meekins, submissively, in Frank’s ear. 

“I think not,” said Frank, with an easy sig- 
nificance in his look ; “ perhaps, on reflection, 
you’ll find that I have come once too often !” 
And with these words he left the cell, and, in 
silent meditation, returned to his companion. 

“ The fellow’s voice was loud and menacing 
when I came to the door,” said Gray, as they 
walked along. 

“ Yes, he grew excited just at that moment ; 
he is evidently a passionate man,” was Frank’s 
reply ; and he relapsed into his former reserve. 

Grounsell, who at first waited with most ex- 
emplary patience for Frank to narrate the sub- 
stance of his interview, at last grew weary of 
his reserve, and asked him what had occurred 
between them. 

Frank paid no attention to the question, but 
sat with his head resting on his hand, and evi- 
dently deep in thought. At last he said, slowly, 

“ Can you tell me the exact date of Mr. God- 
frey’s murder?” 

“ To the day — almost to the hour,” replied 
Grounsell. Taking out his pocket-book, he read, 
“It was on a Friday, the 11th of November, in 
the year 18 — ” 

“ Great God !” cried Frank, grasping the oth- 
er’s arm, while his whole frame shook with a 
strong convulsion. “ Was it, then, on that 
night ?” 

“ Yes,” said the other, “ the murder took place 
at night. The body, when discovered the next 
morning, was perfectly cold.” 

“Then that was it!” cried Frank, wildly. 
“ It was then — when the light was put out — 
when he crossed the garden — when he opened 
the wicket — ” A burst of hysteric laughter 
broke from him, and muttering, “ I saw it— I 
saw it all,” he fell back fainting into Grounsell’s 
arms. 

All the doctor’s care and judicious treatment 
were insufficient to recall the youth to himself. 
His nervous system, shattered and broken by 
long illness, was evidently unequal to the bur- 
den” of the emotions he was suffering under, and 
before he reached the hotel his mind was wan- 
Z 


dering away in all the incoherency of actual 
madness. 

Next to the unhappy youth himself, Grounsell’s 
case was the most pitiable. Unable to account 
for the terrible consequences of the scene whose 
events were a secret to himself, he felt all the 
responsibility of a calamity he had been instru- 
mental in producing. From Frank it was utter- 
ly hopeless to look for any explanation ; already 
his brain was filled with wild images of war 
and battle, mingled with broken memories of a 
scene which none around his bed could recog- 
nize. In his distraction, Grounsell hurried to 
the jail, to see and interrogate Meekins. Agi- 
tated and distracted as he was, all his prudent 
reserve and calm forethought were completely 
forgotten. He saw himself the cause of a dread- 
ful affliction, and already cursed in his heart the 
wiles and snares in which he was engaged 
“If this boy’s reason be lost forever, I, and I 
only, am in fault,” he went on, repeating, as he 
drove in mad haste back to the prison. 

In a few and scarcely coherent words he ex- 
plained to Gray his wish to see the prisoner, 
and although apprised that he had already gone 
to rest, he persisted strongly, and was at length 
admitted into his cell. 

Meekins started at the sound of the opening 
door, and called out, gruffly. “Who’s there?” 

“It’s your friend,” said Grounsell, who had 
already determined on any sacrifice of his policy 
which should give him the hope of aiding Frank. 

“ My friend !” said Meekins, with a dry laugh. . 
“ Since when, sir ?” 

“ Since I have begun to believe I may have 
wronged you, Meekins,” said Grounsell, seating 
himself at the bed-side. 

“I see, sir,” rejoined the other, slowly; “I, 
see it all. Mr. Dalton has told you what passed 
between us, and you are wiser than he was.” 

“ He has not told me every thing, Meekins — 
at least, not so fully and clearly as I wish. I 
want you, therefore, to go over it all again for 
me, omitting nothing that was said on either 
side.” 

“ Ay,” said the prisoner, dryly, “ I see. Now, 
what did Mr. Dalton say to you? I’m curious 
to know — I'd like to hear how he spoke of me.” 

“ As of one who was well disposed to serve 
him, Meekins,” said Grounsell, hesitatingly, and, 
in some confusion. 

“Yes, to be sure,” said the fellow, with a 


354 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


keen glance beneath his gathering brows. “ And 
he told you, too, that we parted good friends — 
at least, as much so as a poor man like myself 
could be to a born gentleman like him. 5 ’ 

“That he did,” cried Grounsell, eagerly; 
“ and young Mr. Dalton is not the man to think 
the worse of your friendship, because you are 
not his equal in rank.” 

“I see — I believe I see it all,” said Meekins, 
with the same sententious slowness as before. 
“ Now look, doctor,” added he, fixing a cold 
and steady stare on the other's features, “ it is 
late in the night — not far from twelve o’clock — 
and I ask you, wouldn’t it be better for you to 
be asleep in your bed, and leave me to rest 
quietly in mine, rather than be fencing — ay, 
fencing here — with one another, trying who is 
the deepest? Just answer me that, sir?” 

“ You want to offend me,” said Grounsell, 
rising. 

“ No, sir ; but it would be offending yourself, 
to suppose that it was worth your while to de- 
ceive the like of me — a poor, helpless man, with- 
out a friend in the world.” 

“ I own I don’t understand you, Meekins,” 
said Grounsell, reseating himself. 

“ There’s nothing so easy, sir, if you want to 
do it. If Mr. Dalton told you what passed be- 
tween us to-night, you know what advice you 
gave him ; and if he did not tell you. faix ! nei- 
ther will I — that’s all. He knows what I have 
in my power. He w 7 as fool enough not to take 
me at my word. Maybe I wouldn’t be in the 
same mind again.” 

“ Come, come,” said Grounsell, good-humor- 
edly, “this is not spoken like yourself. It can 
be no object w T ith you to injure a young gentle- 
man who never harmed you • and if, in serving 
him, you can serve yourself, the part will be 
both more sensible and more honorable.” 

“Well, then,” said Meekins, calmly, “I can 
serve him ; and now 7 comes the other question, 
What will he do for me ?” 

“W r hat do you require from him?” 

“ To leave this place at once — before morn- 
ing,” said the other, earnestly. “ I don't want 
to see them that might make me change my 
mind ; to be on board of a ship at Waterford, and 
away out of Ireland forever, w T ith three hundred 
pounds — I said two, but I’ll want three — and 
for that — for that” — here he hesitated some 
seconds — “ for that I’ll do what I promised.” 

“ And this business will never be spoken of 
more.” 

“Eh ! what?” cried Meekins, starting. 

“ I mean that w T hen your terms are complied 
with, what security have we that you’ll not dis- 
close this secret hereafter ?” 


Meekins slowly repeated the other’s words 
twice over to himself, as if to weigh every syl- 
lable of them, and then a sudden flashing of his 
dark eyes showed that he had caught w r hat he 
suspected was their meaning. 

“Exactly so; I was coming to that,” cried 
he. “ We’ll take an oath on the Gospel — Mr. 
Frank Dalton and myself — that never, while 
there’s breath in our bodies, will we ever speak 
to man or mortal about this matter. I know a 
born gentleman wouldn’t perjure himself, and, 
as for me, I’ll swear in any way, and before any 
one, that your two selves appoint.” 

“ Then there’s this priest,” said Grounsell, 
doubtingly. “You have already told him a great 
deal about this business.” 

“If he hasn’t me to the fore, to prove what I 
said, he can do nothing ; and as to the will, he 
never heard of it.” 

“ The w r ill !” exclaimed Grounsell, with an 
involuntary burst of surprise ; and, brief as it 
w r as, it yet revealed a w 7 hole world of dissimula- 
tion to the acute mind of the prisoner. 

“ So, doctor,” said the fellow, slowly, “ I was 
right, after all. You were only fencing with me.” 

“ What do you mean ?” cried Grounsell. 

“I mean just this, that young Dalton never 
told you one word that passed between us — that 
you came here to pump me, and find out all I 
knew — that, ’cute as you are, there’s them that’s 
equal to you, and that you’ll go back as wise as 
you came.” 

“ What’s the meaning of this change, Meek- 
ins?” 

“ It well becomes you, a gentleman, and a 
justice of the peace, to come to the cell of a 
prisoner in the dead of the night, and try to 
worm out of him what you want for evidence. 
Won’t it be a fine thing to tell before a jury, the 
offers you made me this night? Now, mind 
me, doctor, and pay attention to my words. 
This is twice you tried to trick me, for it was 
you sent that young man here. We’ve done 
with each other now ; and may the flesh rot off* 
my bones, like a bit of burnt leather, if I ever 
trust you again !” 

There was an insolent defiance in the way 
these words were uttered, that told Grounsell all 
hope of negotiation was gone; and the unhappy 
doctor sat overwhelmed by the weight of his 
own incapacity and unskillfulness. 

“ There now, sir, leave me alone. To-mor- 
row I’ll find out if a man is to be treated in this 
way. If I’m not discharged out of this jail be- 
fore nine o’clock, I'll know why, and you’ll never 
forget it, the longest day you live.” 

Crestfallen and dispirited, Grounsell retired 
from the cell, and returned to the inn. 


CHAPTER LXXVII. 


“A STEP IN VAIN.” 


Grounsele lost no time in summoning to his 
aid Mr. Hipsley, one of the leading members of 
the Irish Bar ; but while he awaited his coming, 
difficulties gathered around him from every side. 
Lenahan, the old farmer, who was at first so 
positive about the identity of the prisoner, benan 
to express some doubts and hesitations on the 
subject. It was so many years back since he 
had seen him, that it was possible he might be 
mistaken and in fact, he laid far more stress 
on the fashion of a certain fustian jacket that the 
man used to wear, than on any marks and signs 
of personal resemblance. 

The bold defiance of Meekins, and his insolent 
threats to expose the Daltons to the world, as- 
sailed the poor doctor in various ways, and 
although far from feeling insensible to the shame 
of figuring on a trial, as having terrorized over 
a prisoner, the greater ru ; n that impended on 
his friends absorbed all his sorrows. 

Had he been the evil genius of the family, he 
could scarcely have attained a greater degree of 
unpopularity. Frank’s illness — for since the 
night at the jail his mind had not ceased to 
wander — was, in Kate’s estimation, solely attri- 
butable to Grounsell’s interference — all the more 
unpardonable because inexplicable. Lady Hes- 
ter regarded him as the disturber of all social re- 
lations, who, for some private ends, was involv- 
ing every body in lawsuits; and the old count 
had most natural misgiving about a man who, 
having assumed the sole direction of a delicate 
affair, now confessed himself utterly unable to 
see the way before him. 

To such an extent had mortification and 
defeat reduced the unhappy doctor, that when 
Hipsley arrived he was quite unable to give 
any thing like a coherent, statement of the case, 
or lay before the astute lawyer the points where- 
on he desired guidance and direction. Mean- 
while, the enemy were in a state of active and 
most menacing preparation. Meekins, discharged 
* from jail, was living at an inn in the town, sur- 
rounded by a strong staff of barristers, whose rank 
and standing plainly showed that abundant pecuni- 
ary resources supplied every agency of battle. 

Numerous witnesses were said to have been 
summoned to give their evidence, and the rumor 
ran, that the most ardent votary of private scan- 
dal would be satiated with the tales and traits 
of domestic life the investigation would expose 
to the world. 

Hipsley, who with practiced tact soon saw the 


game about to be played, in vain asked Groun- 
sell for some explanation of its meaning. There 
was a degree of malignity in all the proceed- 
ings which could only be accounted for on the 
supposition of a long-nourished revenge. How 
was he to understand this ? Alas ! poor Groun- 
sell knew nothing, and remembered nothing. 
Stray fragments of conversation, and scattered 
passages of by-gone scenes, were jumbled up 
incoherently in his brain, and it was easy to per- 
ceive that a very little was wanting to reduce 
his mind to the helpless condition of Frank Dal- 
ton’s. 

The charge of a conspiracy to murder his 
relative brought against a gentleman of fortune 
and position, was an accusation well calculated 
to excite the most painful feelings of public curi- 
osity, and such was now openly avowed to be 
the allegation about to be brought to issue ; and 
however repugnant to credulity the bare asser- 
tion might appear at first, the rumor was art- 
fully associated with a strong array of threaten- 
ing circumstances. Every trivial coldness or 
misunderstanding between Dalton and his bro- 
ther-in-law Godfrey was now remembered and 
revived. All the harsh phrases, by which old 
Peter used to speak of the other’s character and 
conduct — Dalton’s constant use of the expres- 
sion, “ What’s the use of his money — will he ever 
enjoy it ?” — was now cited as but too significant 
of a dreadful purpose ; and, in a word, the pub- 
lic, with a casuistry which we often see, was 
rather pleased to credit, what it flattered its own 
ingenuity to combine and arrange. Dalton was 
well known to have been a passionate, headstrong 
man — violent in his resentments, although ready 
to forgive and forget injuries the moment after. 
This temper, and his departure for the Continent, 
from which he never returned, were all the sub- 
stantial facts on which the whole superstructure 
was raised. 

If Hipsley saw that the array of evidence was 
far from bringing guilt home to Dalton, he also 
perceived that the exposure alone would be a 
terrible blow to the suffering family. The very 
nature of the attack evinoed a deep and hidden 
•.vengeance. To avert .this dreadful infliction 
seemed then >his first duty, and he endeavored by 
every means in his power to ascertain who was 
the great instigator of the proceeding, in which 
it was easy to see Meekins was but a subor- 
dinate. The name of Father Cahill had twice 
or thrice been mentioned by Grounsell, but with 




356 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


a vagueness of which little advantage could be 
taken. Still, even with so faint a clew, Hipsley 
was fain to be content, and after several days’ 
ineffectual search, he at last discovered that this 
priest, in company with another, was residing at 
the little inn of the Rore. 

Having communicated his plan to the old gen- 
eral, who but half assented to the idea of nego- 
iating with the enemy, Hipsley set out for the 
Rore, after a long day of fatiguing labor. “ An 
naccurate and insufficient indictment,” repeat- 
ed the lawyer to himself, “ the old and hack- 
eyed resource to balk the prurient curiosity of 
he public, and cut off the scent, when the gos- 
siping pack are in full cry — this is all that we 
nave now left to us. We must go into court ; 
the only thing is to leave it as soon as we are 
able.” 

It was not till he was within half a mile of 
the little inn, that Hipsley saw all the difficulty 
of what he was engaged in, for in what way, or 
on what pretext was he to address Cahill in the 
matter, or by what right connect him with the 
proceedings ? The hardihood by which he had 
often suggested to a witness what he wanted to 
elicit, stood his part now. and he boldly passed 
the threshold, and asked for Father Cahill. Mis- 
taking him for the chief counsel on the other 
side, the landlord bowed obsequiously, and, 
without further parley, introduced him into the 
room where D’Esmonde and Cahill were then 
sitting. 

“ I see, gentlemen,” said’Hipsley, bowing po- 
litely to each, “ that I am not the person you 
expected, but may I be permitted to enjoy an 
advantage which good fortune has given me, and 
ask of you a few moments’ conversation. I am 
the counsel engaged by Mr. Dalton, in the case 
which on Tuesday next is to be brought to trial, 
and having learned from Dr. Grounsell that I 
might communicate with you in all freedom and 
candor, I have come to see if something can not 
be done to rescue the honor of a family from the 
shame of publicity, and the obloquy that attends 
the exposure of a criminal court.” 

“ D’Esmonde took up a book ns Hipsley began 
this address, and affected to be too deeply en- 
gaged in his reading to pay the least, attention to 
what went forward, while Cahill remained stand- 
ing, as if to intimate to the stranger the proprie- 
ty of a very brief interruption. 

“You must have mistaken the person you are 
addressing, sir,” said the pfiest, calmly. “ My 
name is Cahill.” 

“ Precisely, sir ; and to the Reverend Mr. 
Cahill I desire to speak. It is about ten days or 
a fortnight since you called on Dr. Grounsell 
with a proposition for the settlement of this af- 
fair. I am not sufficiently conversant with the 
details of what passed to say on which side the 
obstacle stood — whether he was indisposed to 
concede enough, or that you demanded too much. 
I only know that the negotiation was abortive ; 


and it is now with the hope of resuming the dis- 
cussion — ” 

“ Too late, sir — too late,” said the priest, per- 
emptorily, while a very slight but decisive mo- 
tion of D’Esmonde’s brows gave him encourage- 
ment to be bold. “ I did, it is true, take the step 
you allude to ; a variety of considerations had 
their influence over me. I felt interested about 
the poor man, Meekins, and was naturally anx- 
ious to screen, from the consequences of shame, 
a very old and honored family of the country, 
and — ” Here he hesitated, for a warning glance 
from the abbe recalled him to caution. 

“ And you were about to allude to that more 
delicate part of the affair which relates to Mr. 
Godfrey’s son, sir?” interposed Hipsley, while 
by an unmistakable gesture, he showed his con- 
sciousness of D’Esmonde’s presence. 

“I find, sir,” said Cahill, coldly, “that wo 
are gradually involving ourselves in the very dis- 
cussion I have already declined to engage in. It 
is not here, nor by us, this cause must be de- 
termined. It would be hard to persuade me that 
you should even counsel an interference with the 
course of public justice.” 

“ You are quite right, sir, in your estimate of 
me,” said Hipsley, bowing; “nor should 1 do so, 
if I saw any thing in this case but needless ex- 
posure and great cruelty toward those who must 
necessarily be guiltless, without one single good 
end obtained, except you could so deem the 
gratification of public scandal, by the harrowing 
tale of family misfortune. Bear with me one 
moment more,” said he, as a gesture of impa- 
tience from Cahill showed that he wished an end 
of the interview. “ I will concede what I have 
no right to concede, and what I am in a position 
to refute thoroughly — the guilt of the party im- 
plicated ; upon whom will the punishment fall ? 
on the aged uncle, a brave and honored soldier, 
without the shadow of stain on his fair fame — on 
a young and beautiful girl, whose life has al- 
ready compassed more real sorrow than old men 
like myself have ever known in all their career 
— and on a youth, now stretched upon his sick 
bed, and for whom humanity would rather wish 
death itself, than to come back into a world he 
must shrink from with shame.” 

“ * Filius peccatoris exardebit in crimine pa- 
tris’ — The son of the sinful man shall burn out 
in his father’s shame !” said D’Esmonde, read- 
ing aloud from the volume in his hand. 

Hipsley almost started at the solemnity with 
which these awful words were uttered, and stood 
for a few seconds gazing on the pale and thought- 
ful face which was still bent over the book. 

“ My mission has then failed !” said the law- 
yer, regretfully. “ I am sorry it should be so.” 

A cold bow was the only reply Cahill return- 
ed to this speech, and the other slowly -withdrew, 
and took his way back to Kilkenny, the solemn 
and terrible denunciation still ringing in his ears 
as he went. 


CHAPTER LXXVIII 


f ">i 






“ THE COURT-HOUSE OF KILKENNY.” 


The character of crime in Ireland has pre- 
served for some years back a most terrible con- 
sistency. The story of every murder is the 
same. The same secret vengeance ; the same 
imputed wrong; the same dreadful sentence is- 
sued from a dark and bloody tribunal ; the vic- 
tim alone is changed, but all the rest is unal- 
tered ; and we read, over and over again, of the 
last agonies on the high road and in the noon- 
day, till, sated and wearied, we grow into a 
terrible indilference as to guilt, and talk of the 
“Wild Justice of the People” as though among 
the natural causes which shorten human life. 
If this be so, and to its truth we call to witness 
those who, in every neighborhood, have seen 
some fearful event — happening, as it were, at 
their very doors — deplored to-day, almost for- 
gotten to-morrow ; and while such is the case, 
the public mind is painfully sensitive as to the 
details of any guilt attended with new and un- 
accustomed agencies. In fact, with all the ter- 
rible catalogue before us, we should be far from 
inferring a great degree of guiltiness to a people 
in whom we see infinitely more of misguided 
energies and depraved passions, than of that 
nature whose sordid incentives to crime consti- 
tute the bad of other countries. We are not, in 
this, the apologists for murder. God forbid that 
we should ever be supposed to palliate, by even 
a word, those brutal assassinations which make 
every man blush to call himself an Irishman ! 
We would only be understood as saying that 
these crimes, dark, fearful, and frequent as they 
are. do not argue the same hopeless debasement 
of our population as the less organized guilt of 
other countries ; and inasmuch as the vengeance 
even of the savage is a nobler instinct than the 
highwayman’s passion for gain, so we cherish a 
hope that the time is not distant when the peas- 
ant shall tear out of his heart the damnable de- 
lusion of vindication by blood — when he will 
learn a manly fortitude under calamity, a gen- 
erous trust in those above him, and, better again, 
a freeman’s consciousness that the Law will 
vindicate him against injury, and that we live 
in an age when the great are powerless to do 
wrong, unless when their inhumanity be screen- 
ed behind the darker shadow of the murder that 
avenges it ! Then, indeed, we have no sympa- 
thy for all the sufferings of want, or all the 
miseries of fever; then, we forget the dreary 
hovel, the famished children, the palsy of age, 
and the hopeless cry of starving infancy — we 


have neither eyes nor ears but for the sights 
and sounds of murder ! 

We have said, that amidst all the frequency 
of crime there is no country of Europe where 
any case of guilt accompanied by new agencies, 
or attended by any unusual circumstances, is 
sure to excite so great and wide-spread interest. 
The very fact of an accusation involving any one 
in rank above the starving cottier is looked upon 
as almost incredible, and far from feeling sensi- 
bility dulled by the ordinary recurrence of blood- 
shed, the crime becomes associated in our minds 
with but one class, and as originating in one 
theme. 

We have gradually been led away by these 
thoughts from the remark which first suggested 

them, and now we turn again to the fact, that 
the City of Kilkenny became a scene of the most 
intense anxiety as the morning of that eventful 
trial dawned. Visitors poured in from the 
neighboring counties, and even from Dublin. 
The case had been widely commented on by the 
press ; and although with every reserve as re- 
garded the accused, a most painful impression 
against old Mr. Dalton had spread on all sides. 
Most of his own contemporaries had died ; of 
the few who remained, they were very old men, 
fast sinking into imbecility, and only vaguely 
recollecting “Wild Peter” as one who would 
have stopped at nothing. The new generation, 

then, received the impressions of the man, thus 
unjustly : nor were their opinions more lenient, 
that they lived in an age which no longer toler- 
ated the excesses of the one that preceded it. 
Gossip, too, had circulated its innumerable in- 
cidents on all the personages of this strange 
drama ; and from the venerable Count Stephen 
down to the informer Meekins, every character 
was now before the world. 

That the Daltons had come hundreds of miles, 
and had offered immense sums of money to 
suppress the exposure, was among the com- 
monest rumors of the time, and that the failure 
of this attempt was now the cause of the young 
man’s illness and probable death. Meekins’s 
character received many commentaries and ex- 
I planations. Some alleged that he was animated 
by an old grudge against the family, never to 
be forgiven. Others, said that it was to some 
incident of the war abroad that he owed his 
hatred to young Dalton ; and, lastly, it was ru- 
mored that, having some connection with the 
conspiracy, he was anxious to wipe his con- 


358 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


science of the guilt before he took on him the 
orders of some lay society, whose vows he pro- 
fessed. All these mysterious and shadowy cir- 
cumstances tended to heighten the interest of 
the coming event, and the city was crowded in 
every part by strangers, who not only filled the 
court-house, but thronged the street in front, 
and even occupied the windows and roofs of the 
opposite houses. 

From daylight the seats were taken in the 
galleries of the court; the most distinguished 
of the neighboring gentry were all gathered 
there, while in the seats behind the bench were 
ranged several members of the peerage, who 
had traveled long distances to be present. To 
the left of the presiding Judge sat Count Stephen, 
calm, stern, and motionless, as if on parade. If 
many of the ceremonials of the court and the 
general aspect of the assemblage were new and 
strange to his eyes, nothing in his bearing or 
manner bespoke surprise or astonishment. As 
little too did he seem aware of the gaze of that 
crowded assembly, who, until the interest of the 
trial called their attention away, never ceased to 
stare steadfastly at him. 

At the corner of the gallery facing the jury- 
box D’Esmonde and Cahill were seated. The 
abbe, dressed with peculiar care, and wearing 
the blue silk collar of an order over his white 
cravat, was recognized by the crowd beneath 
as a personage of rank and consideration, which, 
indeed, his exalted and handsome features ap- 
peared well to corroborate. He sustained the 
strong stare of the assemblage with a calm but 
haughty self-possession, like one well accustomed 
to the public eye, and who felt no shrinking 
from the gaze of a multitude. Already the 
rumor ran that he was an official, high in the 
household of the Pope, and many strange con- 
jectures »were hazarded on the meaning of his 
presence at the trial. 

To all the buzz of voices, and the swaying, 
surging motion of a vast crowd, there succeeded 
a dead silence and tranquillity, when the judges 
took their seats on the bench. The ordinary 
details were all gone through with accustomed 
formality : the jury sworn, and the indictment 
read aloud by the clerk of the crown, whose 
rapid enunciation and monotonous voice took 
nothing from the novelty of the statement that 
was yet to be made by counsel. At length 
Mr. Wallace rose, and now curiosity was ex- 
cited to the utmost. In slow and measured 
phrase he began by bespeaking the patient and 
careful attention of the jury to the case before 
them. He told them that it was a rare event 
in the annals of criminal law to arraign one who 
was already gone before the greatest of all tri- 
bunals ; but that such cases had occurred, and 
it was deemed of great importance, not alone to 
the cause of truth and justice, that these investi- 
gations should be made, but that a strong moral 
might be read in the remarkable train of inci- 
dents by which these discoveries were elicited, 
and men were taught to see the hand of Provi- 
dence in events, which, to unthinking minds, 


had seemed purely accidental and fortuitous. 
After dwelling for some time on this theme, he 
went on to state the great difficulty and embar- 
rassment of his own position, called upon as he 
was to arraign less the guilty man than his 
blameless and innocent descendants, and to ask 
for the penalties of the law on those who had 
not themselves transgressed it. 

“I do not merely speak here,” said he, “of 
the open shame and disgrace the course of this 
trial will proclaim — I do not simply allude to 
the painful exposure you will be obliged to wit- 
ness — I speak of the heavy condemnation with 
which the law of public opinion visits the family 
of a felon, making all contact with them a re- 
proach, and denying them even its sympathy. 
These would be weighty considerations if the 
course of justice had not far higher and more 
important claims, not the least among which is 
the assertion to the world at large, that guilt is 
never expiated without punishment, and that the 
law is inflexible in its denunciation of crime.” 

He then entered upon a narrative of the case, 
beginning with an account of the Dalton family, 
and the marriage which connected them with 
the Godfreys. He described most minutely the 
traits of character which separated the two 
men and rendered them uncompanionable one 
to the other. Of Godfrey he spoke calmly 
and without exaggeration ; but when his task 
concerned Peter Dalton, he drew the picture of 
a reckless, passionate, and unprincipled man in 
the strongest colors, reminding the jury, that it 
was all-important to carry with them through 
the case this view of his character, as explain- 
ing and even justifying many of the acts he was 
charged with. “You will,” said he, “perceive 
much to blame in him, but also much to pity, 
and even where you condemn deeply, you will 
deplore the unhappy combination of events which 
perverted what may have been a noble nature, 
and degraded by crime what was meant to have 
adorned virtue! From the evidence I shall pro- 
duce before you will be seen the nature of the 
intimacy between these two men, so strikingly 
unlike in every trait of character, and although 
this be but the testimony of one who heard it 
himself from another, we shall find a strong 
corroboration of all in the consistency of the 
narrative and the occasional allusion to facts 
provable from other sources. We shall then 
show you how the inordinate demands of Dal- 
ton, stimulated by the necessity of his circum- 
stances, led to a breach with his brother-in-law, 
and subsequently to his departure for the Con- 
tinent ; and, lastly, we mean to place before you 
the extraordinary revelation made to the witness 
Meekins, by his comrade William Noonan, who, 
while incriminating himself, exhibited Dalton as 
the contriver of the scheme by which the mur- 
der was effected. 

“It would be manifestly impossible, in a case 
like this, when from the very outset the greatest 
secrecy was observed, and over whose mystery 
years have accumulated clouds of difficulty, to 
afford that clear and orecise line of evidence, 


359 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


which in a l'ecent event might naturally be 
looked for. But you will learn enough, and 
more than enough, to satisfy your minds on 
every point. Meekins shall be subjected to any 
cross-examination my learned brother may de- 
sire, and I only ask for him so much of your 
confidence as a plain unvarying statement war- 
rants. He is a stranger in this country ; and 
although it has been rumored, from his resem- 
blance to a man formerly known here, that he 
has been recognized, we shall show you that for 
upward of thirty years he has been in foreign 
countries, and while he understands that his 
parents were originally from the south of Ire- 
land, he believes himself to have been born in 
America. These facts will at once disabuse 
your minds of the suspicion that he can have 
been actuated by any malicious or revengeful 
feelings toward the Daltons. We shall, also, 
show that the most strenuous efforts have been 
made to suppress his testimony ; and while it 
may be painful to exhibit one charged with the 
administration of justice as having plotted to 
subvert or distort it, we shall produce on the 
witness-table the individual who himself made 
these very overtures of corruption.” 

A long and minute narrative followed — every 
step of the conspiracy was detailed — from the 
first communication of Dalton with Noonan, to 
the fatal moment of the murder. Noonan’s own 
subsequent confession to Meekins was then re- 
lated ; and lastly, the singular accident by which 
Meekins came in contact with the Abbe D’Es- 
monde, and was led to a revelation of the whole 
occurrence. The lawyer at last sat down, and 
as he did so, a low murmuring sound ran through 
the crowded assemblage, whose mournful ea- 
dendfe bespoke the painful acquiescence in the 
statement they had heard. More than one eager 
and sympathizing look was turned to where the 
old count sat ; but his calm, stern features were 
passive and immovable as ever ; and although 
he listened with attention to the address of the 
advocate, not a semblance of emotion could be 
detected in his manner. 

Meekins was now called to the witness-box, 
and as he made his way through the crowd, and 
ascended the table, the most intense curiosity to 
see him was displayed. Well dressed, and with 
a manner of decent and respectful quietude, he 
slowly mounted the stairs, and saluted the bench 
and the jury. Although an old man, he was 
hale and stout-looking, his massive broad fore- 
head, and clear gray eye, showing a character 
of temperament well able to offer resistance to 
time. 

There was an apparent frankness and sim- 
plicity about him that favorably impressed the 
court, and he gave his evidence with that blended 
confidence and caution which never fails to have 
its effect on a jury. He owned, too, that he had 
once speculated on using the secret for his own 
advantage, and extorting a considerable sum 
from old Dalton’s fears, but that on second 
thoughts he had decided on abandoning this no- 
tion, and resolved to let the mystery die with 


him. The accidental circumstance of meeting 
with the Abbe D’Esmonde, at Venice, changed 
the determination, and it was while under the 
religious teachings of this good priest that he 
came to the conviction of his sad duty. His 
evidence occupied several hours, and it was late 
in the afternoon when the cross-examination 
began. 

Nothing within the reach of a crafty lawyer 
was left undone. All that practiced skill and 
penetration could accomplish was exhibited, but 
the testimony was unshaken in every important 
point ; and save when pushing the witness as to 
his own early life and habits, not a single ad- 
mission could be extorted to his discredit. But 
even here his careless easy manner rescued him; 
and when he alleged that he never very well 
knew where he was born, or who were his 
parents, nor had he any very great misgivings 
about having served on board a slaver, and 
“ even worse,” the jury only smiled at what 
seemed the frank indifference of an old sailor. 
Noonan had given him a few scraps of Mr. Dal- 
ton’s writing. He had lost most of them, he 
said ; but of those which remained, although 
unsigned, the authenticity was easily established. 
Old Peter’s handwriting was familiar to many, 
and several witnesses swore to their being gen- 
uine. In other respects, they were of little 
importance. One alone bore any real signifi- 
cance, and it was the concluding passage of a 
letter, and ran thus : “ So that if I’m driven to 
it at last, Godfrey himself is more to blame than 
me.” Vague as this menacing sentence was, 
it bore too home upon the allegations of the 
witness not to produce a strong effect, nor could 
any dexterity of the counsel succeed in obliter- 
ating its impression. 

Seeing that the counsel for the prosecution 
had not elicited the testimony he promised, re- 
specting the attempted subornation of Meekins, 
the defense rashly adventured upon that danger- 
ous ground, and too late discovered his error, 
for the witness detailed various conversations 
between Grounsell and himself, and gave with 
terrible effect a scene that he swore had oc- 
curred between young Dalton and him in the 
jail. It was in vain to remind the jury that he, 
who alone could refute this evidence, was stretch- 
ed on a bed of sickness. The effect was already 
made. 

When questioned as to the reasons Dalton 
might have had for conspiring against his broth- 
er-in-law, he confessed that Noonan only knew 
that Godfrey had refused him all assistance, and 
that he believed that after his death, he, Dalton, 
would inherit the property. His own impres- 
sion was, however, that it was more vengeance 
than any thing else. The Daltons were living 
in great poverty abroad ; there was scarcely 
a privation which they had not experienced; 
and the embittering stings of their misery were 
adduced as the mainspring of old Peter’s guilt. 
This allusion to the private life of the Dalton 
family was eagerly seized on by Mr. Wallace, 
who now “begged to ascertain certain facts on 


360 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


a subject, which, but for his learned brother’s 
initiative, he would have shrunk from exhibiting 
in open court.” Meekins could, of course, but 
give such details as he had learned from Noonan, 
but they all described a life of suffering and 
meanness. Their contrivances, and their straits 
— their frequent change of place, as debt accu- 
mulated over them — their borrowings and their 
bills — and, lastly, the boastful pretexts they con- 
stantly brought forward, on the rank of their 
uncle, Count Dalton, as a guarantee of their 
solvency and respectability. So unexpected was 
the transition to the mention of this name, that 
the whole assembly suddenly turned their eyes 
to where the old general sat, mute and stern; 
but the look he returned might well have abash- 
ed them, so haughty and daring was its inso- 
lence. 

Apparently to show the knowledge possessed 
by the witness on matters of private detail — 
but, in reality, to afford an occasion for dilating 
on a painful subject — the whole history of the 
family was raked up, and all the sad story of 
Nelly’s toil, and Kate’s menial duties, paraded 
in open court, w r ound up, at last, with what was 
called young Frank’s enlistment “ as a common 
soldier of the Austrian army.” 

The greater interests of the trial were all for- 
gotten in these materials for gossip, and the 
curiosity of the listeners was excited to its high- 
est pitch, when he came to tell of that mingled 
misery and ambition — that pride of name, and 
shameless disregard of duty, which he described 
as characterizing them; nor was the craving 
appetite for scandal half appeased, when the 
court interrupted the examination, and declared 
that it was irrelevant and purposeless. 

Meekins at last descended from the table, and 
Michel Lenahan was called up. The important 
fact he had so resolutely sworn to, some weeks 
before, he had already shown a disinclination to 
confirm, and all that he could now be brought 
to admit was, that he had believed Meekins was 
his old acquaintance, Black Sam ; but the years 
that had elapsed since he saw him before, change 
of dress, and the effect of time on each of. them, 
might well shake a better memory than his own. 

“ Jimmy Morris might know him again, my 
lord,” said he, “for he never forgot any body — 
but he isn’t to the fore.” 

“I have the happiness to say that he is,” said 
Hipsley. “ He has arrived from Cove, here, 
this morning. Call James Morris, crier;” and 
soon after, a very diminutive old man, with a 
contracted leg, mounted the table. He was 
speedily sworn, and his examination commenced, 
After a few questions as to his trade — he was a 
tailor — and w’here he had lived latterly, he was 
asked whether he remembered, among his former 
acquaintance a certain bailiff on the Corrig 
O’Neal estate, commonly called Black Sam ? 

“ By coorse I do,” said he ; “ he was always 
making mischief between Mr. Godfrey and ould 
Peter.” 

“ You have not been asked that question, sir,” 
interposed Wallace. 


“No, but he shall be, by-and-by,” cried Hip- 
sley. “ Tell me, now, what kind of a man w T as 
this same Black Sam ?” 

“ As cruel a man as ever you seen.” 

“ That is not exactly what I am asking. I 
want to hear what he was like.” 

“He was like the greatest villain — ” 

“ I mean, was he short or tall ; was he a big 
man and a strong man, or was he a little fellow, 
like you or me ?” 

“ Devil a bit like either of us. He’d bate us 
both with one hand — ay, and that fellow there 
with the wig that’s laughing at us, into the bar- 
gain.” 

“ So, then, he was large and powerful ?” 

“ Yes, that he was.” 

“ Had he any thing remarkable about his ap- 
pearance — any thing that might easily distinguish 
him from other men ?” 

“’Tis, maybe, his eyes you mane?” 

“ What about his eyes, then ?” 

“ They could be lookin’ at ye when ye’d 
sware they were only lookin’ at the ground ; 
and he’d a thrick of stopping himself when he 
was laughing hearty by drawing the back of his 
hand over his mouth, this way.” 

“ As the witness accompanied these words by 
a gesture, a low murmur of astonishment ran 
through the court, for more than once during 
the morning Meekins had been seen to perform 
the very act described. 

“You would probably be able to know him 
again if you saw him ?” 

“That I would.” 

“Look around you, now, and tell me if you 
see him here. No, no, he’s not in the jury-box ; 
still less likely is it that you’d find him on the 
bench.” 

The witness, neither heeding the remark nor 
the laughter which followed it, slowly rose and 
looked around him. 

“Move a little to one side, if ye plase,” said 
he, to a member of the inner bar. “Yes, that’s 
him.” And he pointed to Meekins, who, with 
crossed arms and lowering frown, stood still and 
immovable. 

The bystanders all fell back at the same in- 
stant, and now he remained isolated in the midst 
of that crowded scene, every eye bent upon 
him. 

“You’re wearin’ well, Sam,” said the wit- 
ness, addressing him familiarly. “ Maybe it’s 
the black wig you’ve on ; but vou don’t look a 
day oulder than when I seen you last.” 

1 his speech excited the most intense astonish- 
ment in the court, and many now perceived, for 
the first time, that Meekins did not wear his 
own hair. 

“ Are you positive, then, that this man is 
Black Sam ?” 

“Iam.” 

“Are you prepared to swear to it, on your 
solemn oath, taking all the consequences false 
evidence will bring down upon you ?” 

“I am.” 

“ You are quite certain that it’s no accidental 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


resemblance, but that this is the very identical 
man you knew long ago?” 

“I m certain sure. I’d know him among a 
thousand, and be the same token : he has the 
mark of a cut on the crown of his head, three 
inches long. See, now, if I’m not right.” 

Meekins was now ordered to mount the wit- 
ness-table, and remove his wig. He was about 
to say something, but Wallace stopped him, and 
whispered a few words in his ear. 

“ I would beg to observe,” said the lawyer, 
that if an old cicatrix is to be the essential 
token of recognition, few men who have lived 
the adventurous life of Meekins will escape 
calumny.” 

“ Tis a mark like the letter V,” said “Jim- 
my,” “ lor it was ould Peter himself gave it him, 
one night with a brass candlestick. “ There 
it is,” cried he, triumphantly; “didn’t I tell 
true ?” 

The crowded galleries creaked under the 
pressure of the eager spectators, who now bent 
forward and gazed on this strong proof of iden- 
tification. 

“ Is there any other mark by which you could 
remember him?” 

“ Sure, I know every fayture of his face — 
what more d’ye want?” 

“ Now, when did you see him last — I mean 
before this day ?” 

“ The last time I seen him was the mornin’ 
he was taken up.” 

“ How do you mean, ‘taken up?’ ” 

“ Taken up by the polis.” 

“Taken by the police — for what?” 

“ About the murder, to be sure.” 

A thrill of horror pervaded the court as these 
words were spoken, and Meekins, whose im- 
passive face had never changed before, became 
now pale as death. 

“ Tell the jury what you saw, on the morning 
you speak of.” 

“ I was at home, workin’, when the polis 
passed by. They asked me where Black Sam 
lived; ‘Up the road,’ says I.” 

“ How far is your house from his ?” 

“ About fifty perches, your honer, in the same 
boreen, but higher up.” 

“ So that, in going from Mr. Godfrey’s to his 
own home, Sam must have passed your door?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“This he did every day — two or three times 
— didn’t he ?” 

“ He did, sir.” 

“Did you usually speak to each other as he 
went by ?” 

“Yes, sir; we always would say, ‘God save 
you,’ or the like.” 

“How was he dressed on these occasions?” 

“The way he was always dressed, how 
would he be ?” 

“ That’s exactly what I’m asking you.” 

“ Faix ! he had his coat and breeches, like 
any other man.” 

“ I see. He had his coat and breeches, like 
any other man — now, what color was his coat?” 


361 

“ It was gray, sir — blue-grav. I know it 
well.” 

“How do you come to know it well?” 

“ Bekase my own boy, Ned, sir. bought one 
off the same piece before he ’listed, and I 
couldn’t forget it.” 

“ Where were you the day after the murder, 
when the policemen came to take Sam Eu- 
stace ?” 

“ I was sitting at my own door smoking a 
pipe, and I see the polis cornin’, and so I went 
in and shut the door.” 

“ What was that for? You had no reason to 
fear them.” 

“Aveh! — who knows — the polis is terrible!” 

“ Well, after that—” 

“ Well, when I heard them pass, I opened 
the door, and then, I saw enough. They were 
standing at Sam’s house ; one of them talking 
to Sam, and the other two rummaging about, 
sticking poles into the thatch, and tumbling 
over the turf in the stack. 

“ ‘ Isn’t this a pretty business,’ says Sam, 
calling out to me. ‘ The polis is come to take 
me off to prison, because some one murdered 
the master.’ ‘ Well, his soul’s in glory any 
how,’ says I, and I shut the doore.” 

“ And saw nothing more ?” 

“ Only the polis lading Sam down the boreen 
betune them.” 

“ He made no resistance, then ?” 

“Not a bit: he went as quiet as a child. 
When he was going by the doore, I remember 
he said to one of the polis, ‘ Would it be plazing 
to ye to help me wid my coat, ^for I cut my 
finger yesterday ?’ ” 

“ Didn’t I say it was with a reaping-hook ?” 
cried Meekins, who, in all the earnestness of 
anxiety, followed every word that fell from the 
witness. 

His counsel sprung to his feet, and pulled him 
back by the arm, but not before the unguarded 
syllables had been heard by every one around. 
Such was the sensation now produced, that for 
several minutes the proceedings were inter- 
rupted ; while the counsel conferred in low 
whispers together, and all seemed thunder- 
struck and amazed. Twice Meekins stood for- 
ward to address the court, but on each occasion 
he was restrained by the counsel beside him, 
and it was only by the use of menaces that 
Wallace succeeded in enforcing silence on him. 
“When the moment of cross-examination ar- 
rives,” said he to the jury, “I hope to explain 
every portion of this seeming difficulty. Have 
you any further questions to ask the witness ?” 

“ A great many more,” said Hipsley. “ Now, 
Morris, attend to me. Sam asked the police to 
assist him, as he had cut his hand with a reap- 
ing-hook?” 

“ He did indeed, sir,” said the witness ; “ and 
a dreadful cut. it was. It was hard for him to 
get his hand into the sleeve of the jacket.” 

“I perceive he had difficulty in putting on the 
jacket, but the policemen helped him?” 

“ They did, sir, and one of them was hurting 


362 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


him, and Sam called out, ‘ Take care — take 
care. It’s better to cut the ould sleeve ; it’s 
not worth much, now.’ ” 

“ And did they cut it?” 

“ They did, sir ; they ripped it up all the way 
to the elbow.” 

“ That was a pity, wasn’t it, to rip up a fine 
frieze coat like that?” 

“ Oh, it wasn’t his coat at all, sir. It was 
only a flannel jacket he had for working in.” 

“So, then, he did not wear the blue-gray 
frieze like your son’s when he went to jail?” 

“ No, sir. He wore a jacket. 

“ Now, why was that ?” 

“ Sorrow one o’ me knows ; but I remember 
he didn’t wear it.” 

“ Didn’t I say that I left my coat at the bog, 
and that I was ashamed to go in the ould jack- 
et?” screamed out Meekins, whose earnestness 
was above all control. 

“ If this go on, it is impossible that I can 
continue to conduct this case, my lord.” said 
Wallace. “ While no attempt has been made 
to refute one tittle of the great facts I have 
mentioned, a system of trick has been resorted 
to, by which my client’s credit is sought to be 
impugned. What, care I, if he was known by a 
hundred nicknames. He has told the court al- 
ready that he has lived a life of reckless adven- 
ture — that he has sailed under every flag, and in 
every kind of enterprise. Mayhap, amid his 
varied characters, he has played that of a land 
bailiff; nor is it very strange that he should not 
wish to parade before the world the fact of his 
being arrested, even under a false accusation, 
for he was discharged, as he has just told you, 
two days after.” 

A large bundle, carefully sealed, was now 
carried into the court, and deposited before Mr. 
Hipsley, who, after a few seconds’ consultation 
with Grounsell, rose, and addressed the court. 

“ My learned friend complains of being sur- 
prised ; he will, perhaps, have a better right to 
be so in a few moments hence. I now demand 
that this man be consigned to the dock. These 
affidavits are all regular, my lord, and the evi- 
dence I purpose to lay before you will very soon 
confirm them.” 

The judge briefly scanned the papers before 
him, and, by a gesture, the command was issued, 
and Meekins, who never uttered a word, was 
conducted within the dock. 

“ I will merely ask the witness two or three 
questions more,” added Hipsley, turning toward 
the jailer, who alone, of all the assembly, looked 
on without any wonderment. 

“Now, witness, when did you see the prisoner 
wear the blue-gray coat ? After the death of 
Mr. Godfrey, I mean.” 

“I never seen him wear it again,” was the 
answer. 

“ How could ye ?” cried Meekins, in a hoarse 
voice. “ How could ye ? I sailed for America 
the day after I was set at liberty.” 

“ Be silent, sir,” said the prisoner’s counsel, 
who, suffering greatly from the injury of these 


interruptions, now assumed a look of angry im- 
patience, while, with the craft of his calling, he 
began already to suspect that a mine was about 
to be sprung beneath him. 

“You have told us,” said Hipsley, and, as he 
spoke, his words came with an impressive slow- 
ness that made them fall deep into every heart 
around — “ you have told us that the coat worn 
habitually by the prisoner, up to the day of Mr. 
Godfrey’s murder, you never saw on him after 
that day. Is that true ?” 

“It is, sir.’’ 

“ You have also said that this coat — part of a 
piece from which your son had a coat — was of 
a peculiar color?” 

“ It was, sir ; and more nor that, they had 
both the same cut ! only Sam’s had horn buttons, 
and my son’s was metal.” 

“ Do you think, then, from these circumstances 
you have just mentioned, that you could know 
that coat if you were to see it again?” 

A pause followed, and the witness, instead of 
answering, sat with his eyes fixed upon the 
dock, where the prisoner, with both hands gasp- 
ing the iron spikes, stood, his glaring eyeballs 
riveted upon the old man’s face, with an ex- 
pression of earnestness and terror actually hor- 
rible to witness. 

“Look at me, Morris,” said Hipsley, “and 
answer my question. Would you know this 
coat again ?” 

“ That is, would you swear to it ?” inter- 
posed the opposite counsel. 

“I believe I would, sir,” was the answer. 

“ You must be sure, my good man. Belief is 
too vague for us here,” said the prisoner’s law- 
yer. 

“Is this it?” said the solicitor, as, breaking 
the seals of the parcel before him, he held up a 
coat, which, ragged and eaten by worms, seem- 
ed of a far darker color than that described by 
the witness. 

The old man took it in his hands and exam- 
ined it over carefully, inspecting with all the 
minute curiosity of age every portion of the 
garment. The suspense at this moment was 
terrible — not a syllable was spoken — not a 
breath stirred — nothing but the long-drawn 
respirations of the prisoner, who, still leaning 
on the iron railing of the dock, -watched the old 
man’s motions with the most harrowing intensity. 

“ Let me see it on him,” said the witness at 
last. 

“ Prisoner, put on that coat,” said the judge. 

Meekins tried to smile as he proceeded to 
obey, but the effort was too much, and the feat- 
ures became fixed into one rigid expression, re- 
sembling the look of hysteric laughter. 

“Well, do you know me now?” cried he, in 
a voice whose every accent rang with a tone of 
intimidation and defiance. 

“ I do,” said the witness, boldly. “ I’ll swear 
to that coat, my lord, and I’ll prove I’m right. 
It was the same stuffing put into both collars; 
and if I’m telling truth, it’s a piece of ould cordu- 
roy is in that one there.” 


363 


THE DALTONS; OR THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


The very grave was not more still than the 
court as the olTicer of the jail, taking off the 
coat, ripped up the collar, and held up in his 
hand a small piece of tarnished corduroy. 

“ My lord ! my lord ! will you let a poor 
man’s life be swore away — ” 

“ Silence, sir — be still, I say,” cried the pris- 
oner’s counsel, who saw the irremediable injury of 
these passionate appeals. “I am here to conduct 
your defense, and I will not be interfered with. 
Your lordship will admit that this proceeding has 
all the character of a surprise. We were per- 
fectly unprepared for the line my learned friend 
has taken — ” 

“ Permit me to interrupt the counsel, my 
lord. I need scarcely appeal to this court to 
vindicate me against any imputation such as the 
learned gentleman opposite would apply to me. 
Your lordship’s venerable predecessors on that 
bench have more than once borne witness to the 
fairness and even the lenity of the manner in 
which the crown prosecutions have been con- 
ducted. Any attempt to surprise, any effort to 
entrap a prisoner, would be as unworthy of us as 
it would be impossible in a court over which you 
preside. The testimony which the witness has 
just given, the extraordinary light his evidence 
has just shown, was only made available to our- 
selves by one of those circumstances in which we 
see a manifestation of the terrible judgment of 
God upon him who sheds the blood of his fellow- 
man. Yes, my lord, if any case can merit the 
high designation of Providential intervention, it 
is this one. Every step of this singular history 
is marked by this awful characteristic. It is the 
nephew of the murdered man by whom the first 
trace of crime has been detected. It is by him 
that we have been enabled to bring the prisoner 
into that dock. It is by him that a revelation 
has been made which, had it not occurred in our 
own day, and under our own eyes, we should be 
disposed to class among the creations ot fiction. 
The learned counsel has told you that these arti- 
cles of clothing have been produced here by sur- 
prise. This affidavit is the shortest answer to 
that suspicion. From this you will see that, 
early this morning, young Mr. Dalton request- 
ed that two magistrates of the city should be 
brought to his bed-side, to take down the de- 
tails of an important declaration. The fever 
which for several days back had oppressed him, 
had abated for the time, and he was, although 
weak and low, calm and collected in all his fac- 
ulties. It was then, with remarkable accuracy, 
and in a manner totally free from agitation, that 
he made the following singular revelation.’ 

The counsel then recited, at more length than 
would suit our readers’ patience to follow, the 
story of Frank’s visit to Ireland when a boy, and 
his accidental presence in the grounds ol Corrig 
O’Neal on the very night of the murder : 

“ At first the magistrates were disposed to 
regard this revelation as the mere dream of an 
erring intellect; but when he described every 
feature of the locality, and the most intricate 
details of scenery, their opinion was changed ; 


and when at last he designated the exact spot 
where he had seen a large bundle buried, it 
only heeded that this should be confirmed to es- 
tablish the strict truth of all he alleged. With 
every care and precaution against deception, the 
magistrates proceeded to visit the place. They 
were accompanied by several persons of charac- 
ter and station, in presence of whom the exam- 
ination was made. So accurate was the narra- 
tive, that they found the spot without difficulty, 
and, on digging down about two feet, they came 
upon the articles which you now see before you. 
These, without any examination, they at once 
sealed up, in presence of the witnesses, and here 
for the first time have they been displayed to 
view.” 

As the counsel had reached thus far, the fall 
of a heavy body resounded through the court, 
and the cry was raised that the prisoner had 
been seized with a fit. 

“No, my lord,” exclaimed the lawyer, “fa- 
tigue and weariness alone have produced this 
effect. My unhappy client is no more proof 
against exhaustion than against slander.” 

“ My lord ! my lord !” cried the prisoner, as, 
holding by the spikes of the dock, he leaned for- 
ward over it, “ can’t I get justice ? Is it my 
coat — ” 

“ Sit down, sir,” said his counsel, angrily ; 
“ leave this to me.” 

“ What do you care what becomes of me ?” 
cried the other, rudely. “ Where’s Father Ca- 
hill? Where’s — ” at this instant his eyes met 
those of D’Esmonde, as, seated in the gallery 
immediately above him, he watched the proceed- 
ings with an agonizing interest, only second to 
the prisoner’s own. “ Oh, look what you’ve 
brought me to !” cried he, in an accent of 
heart-broken misery ; “ oh, see where I’m 

standing now !” 

The utterance of these words sent a thrill 
through the court, and the judge was obliged 
to remind the prisoner that he was but endan- 
gering his own safety by these rash interrup- 
tions. 

“ Sure I know it, my lord ; sure I feel it,” 
cried he, sobbing ; “ but what help have I ? Is 
there one to stand by me? You’re lookin’ for 
marks of blood, ain’t ye ?” screamed he to the 
jury, who were now examining the coat and 
cap with great attention : “ and there it is now 
— there it is !” cried he, wildly, as his eyes de- 
tected a folded paper that one of the jurymen 
had just taken from the coat-pocket. “ What 
could I get by it ? sure the will couldn’t do me 
any harm.” 

“ This is a will, my lord,” said the foreman, 
handing the document down to the bench. It 
is dated, too, on the very night before Mr. God- 
frey’s death.” 

The judge quickly scanned the contents, and 
then passed it over to Mr. Hipslev, who, glanc- 
ing his eyes over it, exclaimed, 

“If we wanted any further evidence to excul- 
pate the memory of Mr. Dalton, it is here. By 
this will, signed, sealed, and witnessed in all 


364 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


form, Mr. Godfrey bequeathed to his brother-in- 
law, his whole estate of Corrig 0 : Neal, and, 
with the exception of some trilling legacies, 
names him heir to all he is possessed of.” 

“ Let me out of this — leave me free !” shout- 
ed the prisoner, whose eyeballs now glared with 
the red glow of madness. “ What brought me 
into your schemes and plots ? why did I ever 
come here ? Oh, my lord, don’t see a poor man 
come to harm that has no friends. Bad luck to 
them here and hereafter, the same Daltons. It 
was ould Peter turned me out upon the world, 
and Godfrey was no better. Oh, my lord ! oh, 
gentlemen ! if ye knew what druv me to it — but I 
didn’t do it — I never said I did. I’ll die innocent !” 

These words were uttered with a wild volu- 
bility, and, when over, the prisoner crouched 
down in the dock, and buried his face in his 
hands. From that instant he never spoke a 
word. The trial was prolonged till late into 
the night ; a commission was sworn, and sent 
to the inn, to examine young Dalton, and inter- 
rogate him on every point. All that skill and ad- 
dress could do, were exerted by the counsel for 
the defense; but, as the case proceeded, the va- 
rious facts only tended to strengthen and cor- 
roborate each other, and long before the jury re- 
tired, their verdict was certain. 

‘'Guilty, my lord.” And, well-known and 
anticipated as the words were, they were heard in 
all that solemn awe their terrible import conveys. 

The words seemed to rouse the prisoner from 
his state, for, as if with a convulsive effort, he 
sprang to his legs and advanced to the front of 
the dock. To the dreadful question of the judge, 
as to w’hat he had to say why sentence of death 
should not be pronounced upon him? he made 
no answer, and his wild gaze and astonished 
features showed an almost unconsciousness of 
all around him. From this state of stupor he 
soon rallied, and, grasping the iron spikes with 
his hands, he protruded his head and shoulders 
over the dock, while he carried his eyes over the 
assembled crowd, till at last they lighted on the 
spot where Cahill and D’Esmonde were seat- 
ed. The former, pale and anxious-looking — the 
latter, with his head buried in his hands. The 
prisoner nodded with an insolent air of familiar- 
ity to the priest, and muttered a few broken 
words in Irish. Again was the terrible demand 
made by the judge ; and now the prisoner turned 
his face toward the bench, and stood as if re- 
flecting on his reply. 

“ Go on,” cried he at last, in a tone of rude 
defiance; and the judge, in all the passionless 
dignity of his high station, calmly reviewed the 
evidence in the case, and gave his full concur- 
rence to the verdict of the jury. 

“ I can not conclude,” said he, solemnly, 

“ without adverting to that extraordinary com- 
bination of events by which this crime, after a 
long lapse of years, has been brought home to 
its guilty author. The evidence you have heard 
to-day from Mr. Dalton — the singular corrobo- 
ration of each particular stated by him in the 
•very existence of the will, which so strongly 


refutes the motive alleged against the late Mr. 
Dalton — were all necessary links of the great 
chain of proof ; and yet all these might have 
existed in vain, were it not for another agency 
— too eventful to be called an accident — I al- 
lude to the circumstance by which this man be- 
came acquainted with one who was himself pe- 
culiarly interested in unfathoming the mystery 
of this murder : I mean the Abbe D’Esmonde. 
The name of this gentleman has been more than 
once alluded to in this trial, but he has not been 
brought before you, nor was there any need that 
he should. Now, the abbe, so far from connect- 
ing the prisoner with the crime, believed him to 
be the agency by which it might have been fast- 
ened on others ; and to this end he devoted him- 
self with every zeal to the inquiry. Here, then, 
amid all the remarkable coincidences of this case, 
we find the very strangest of all, for this same 
abbe — the accidental means of rescuing the 
prisoner from death at Venice, and w r ho is the 
chief agent in now bringing him to punishment, 
here — this abbe is himself the natural son of the 
late Mr. Godfrey. Sent when a mere boy to St. 
Omer and Louvain, to be educated for the Ro- 
man Catholic priesthood, he was afterward trans- 
ferred to Salamanca, where he graduated, and 
took deacon’s orders. Without any other clew to 
his parentage than the vague lines of admission 
in the Conventual registry, the checks for money 
signed and forwarded by Mr. Godfrey, this gen- 
tleman had risen by his great talents to a high 
and conspicuous station before he addressed him- 
self to the search after his family. I have no 
right to pursue this theme further; nor had I 
alluded to it at all, save as illustrating in so re- 
markable a manner that direct and unmistakable 
impress of the working of Providence in this 
case, showing how, amid all the strange chaos of 
a time of revolution and anarchy — when govern- 
ments were crumbling, and nations rending 
asunder — this one blood-spot — the foul deed of 
murder — should cry aloud for retribution, and 
by a succession of the least likely incidents, 
bring the guilty man to justice.” 

After a careful review of all the testimony 
against the prisoner — the conclusiveness of which 
left no room for a doubt — he told him to abandon 
all hope of a pardon in this world — concluding, 
in the terrible words of the law, by the sentence 
of death. 

“ You, Samuel Eustace, will be taken from 
the bar of this court to the place from whence 
you came, the jail, and thence to the place of ex- 
ecution — there to be hung by the neck till you 
are dead — ” 

“ Can I see my priest — may the priest come 
to me !” cried the prisoner fiercely, for not even 
the appalling solemnity of the moment could re- 
press the savage energy of his nature. 

“ Miserable man !” said the judge, in a fal- 
tering accent, “ I beseech you to employ well 
the few minutes that remain to you in this world, 
and carry not into the next that spirit of defiance 
by which you would brave an earthly judgment- 
seat ; and may God have mercy on your soul.” 


CHAPTER LXXIX. 


“THE RETRIBUTION.” 


The sudden flash of intelligence by which ! 
young Frank was enabled to connect the almost ; 
lorgotten incidents of boyhood with the date, and j 
the other circumstances of the murder, had very j 
nearly proved fatal to himself. His brain was , 
little able to resist the influence of all these con- , 
flict.ing emotions, and for some days his faculties ! 
wandered away in the wildest and most incoher- j 
ent fancies. It was only on the very morning of 
the trial that he became self-possessed and col- 1 
leeted. Then it was that he could calmly re- 1 
member every detail of that fatal night, and see 
their bearing on the mysterious subject of the 
trial. At first Grounsell listened to his story as 
a mere raving; but when Frank described with 
minute accuracy the appearance of the spot — 
the old orchard, the stone stair that descended 
into the garden, and the little door which opened 
into the wood — he became eagerly excited ; and, 
anxious to proceed with every guarantee of cau- 
tion, he summoned two other magistrates to the 
bedside to hear the narrative. We have already 
seen the event which followed that revelation, 
and by which the guilt of the murderer was 
established. 

From hour to hour, as the trial proceeded, 
Frank received tidings from the court-house. The 
excitement, far from injuring, seemed to rally 
and reinvigorate him ; and although the painful 
exposure of their domestic circumstances was 
cautiously slurred over to his ears, it w T as plain 
to see the indignant passion with which he heard 
of Nelly and Kate being dragged before the pub- 
. ic eye. It was, indeed, a day of deep and ter- 
rible emotion, and, when evening came, he sank 
into the heavy sleep of actual exhaustion. While 
nothing was heard in the sick room save the 
long-drawn breathings of the sleeper, the draw- 
ing-rooms of the hotel were crowded with the 
gentry of the neighborhood, all eager to see and j 
welcome the Daltons home again. If the old 
were pleased to meet with the veteran Count 
Stephen, the younger were no less delighted 
with even such casual glimpses as they caught 
of Kate, in the few moments she could spare 
from her brother’s bedside. As for Lady Hester, 
such a torrent of sensations, such a perfect ava- 
lanche of emotion, was perfect ecstasy ; perhaps 
not the least agreeable feeling being the assur- 
ance that she no longer possessed any right or 
title to Corrig O’Neal, and was literally unpro- 
vided for in the world. 

“One detests things by halves,” said she; 
“but to be utterly ruined is quite charming.” 


The country visitors were not a little surpris- 
ed at the unfeigned sincerity of her enjoyment, 
and still more, perhaps, at the warm cordiality 
of her manner toward them — she who, till now, 
had declined all proffers of acquaintanceship, and 
seemed determined to shun them. 

Consigning to her care all the duties of re- 
ceiving the crowd of visitors, which old Count 
Stephen was but too happy to see, Kate only 
ventured for a few minutes at a time to enter the 
drawing-room. It was while hastening back 
from one of these brief intervals that she heard 
her name spoken, in a low but distinct voice. She 
turned round, and saw a man, closely enveloped 
in a large cloak, beside her. 

“ It is I, Miss Dalton — the Abbe D’Esmonde,” 
said he. “ May I speak with your brother ?” 

Kate could scarcely answer him from terror. 
All the scenes in which she had seen him figure 
rose before her view, and the man was to her 
eyes, the very embodiment of peril. 

“ My brother is too ill, sir, to receive you,” 
said she. “ In a few days hence — ” 

“ It will then be too late, Miss Dalton,” said 
he, mournfully. “ The very seconds as they pass, 
now, are as days to one who stands on the brink 
of eternity.” 

“ Is there any thing which I could communi- 
cate to him myself? for I am fearful of what 
might agitate or excite him — ” 

“ If it must be so,” said he, sighing, and as if 
speaking to himself. “ But could you trust mo 
to say a few words ? I will be most cautious.” 

“If, then, to-morrow — ” 

“ To-morrow ! It must be now — at this very 
instant !” cried he, eagerly. “ The life of one, 
who is unfit to go hence, depends upon it.” 
Then, taking her hand, he continued : “ I have 
drawn up a few lines, in shape of a petition for 
mercy to this wretched man. They must be in 
London by to-morrow night, to permit of a re- 
prieve before Saturday. Your brother’s signa- 
ture is all-essential. For this I wished to see 
him, and to know if he has any acquaintanceship 
with persons in power who could aid the project. 
You see how short the time is — all depends upon 
minutes. The Secretary of State can suspend 
the execution, and in the delay a commutation 
of the sentence may be obtained.” 

“ Oh, give it to me !” cried she, eagerly. 
And, snatching the paper from his hands, she 
hurried into the chamber. 

Frank Dalton was awake, but in all the lan- 
guor of great debility. He scarcely listened to 


366 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


his sister, till he heard her pronounce the name 
of the Abbe D’Esmonde. 

“ Is he here, Kate ? — is he here ?” — cried he, 
eagerly. 

“Yes, and most anxious to see and speak with 
you.” 

“ Then let him come in, Kate. Nay, nay, it 
will not agitate me.” 

Kate noiselessly retired, and, beckoning the 
abbe to come forward, she left the room, and 
closed the door. 

D’Esmonde approached the sick bed with a 
cautious, almost timid air, and seated himself on 
a chair, without speaking. 

“ So, then, we are cousins, I find,” said Frank, 
stretching out his wasted hand toward him. — 
“ They tell me you are a Godfrey, abbe?” 

D'Esmonde pressed his hand in token of as- 
sent, but did not utter a word. 

“ I have no wish — I do not know if I have the 
right — to t stand between you and your father’s 
inheritance. If I am destined to arise from this 
sick bed, the world is open to me, and I am not 
afraid to encounter it. Let us be friends, then, 
D’Esmonde, in all candor and frankness.” 

“ Willingly — most willingly. There need be 
but one rivalry between us,” said D’Esmonde, 
with a voice of deep feeling — “ in the struggle 
who shall best serve the other. Had we known 
of this before — had I suspected how our efforts 
might have been combined and united — had 1 
but imagined you as my ally, and not my — But 
these are too exciting themes to talk upon. You 
are not equal to them.” 

“ Not so ; it is in such moments that I feel a 
touch of health and vigor once again. Go on, I 
beseech you.” 

“ I will speak of that which more immediate- 
ly concerns us,” said the abbe. “ This wretched 
man stands for execution on Saturday. Let us 
try to save him. His guilt must have already 
had its expiation in years of remorse and suffer- 
ing. Here is a petition I have drawn up to the 
Secreta^ of State. It has been signed by sev- 
eral of the jury who tried the cause. We want 
your name, also, to it. Such a commutation as 
may sentence him to exile is all that we pray 
for.” 


“ Give me the pen ; I’ll sign it at once.” 

“ There — in that space,” said the abbe, point- 
ing with his finger. “ How your hand trembles. 
This can not be like your usual writing.” 

“ Let me confirm it by my seal, then. You’ll 
find it on the table yonder.” 

D’Esmonde melted the wax, and stood beside 
him, while the youth pressed down the seal. 

“ Even that,” said the abbe, “ might be dis- 
puted. There’s some one passing in the corri- 
dor ; let him hear you acknowledge it as your 
act and hand.” And, so saying, he hastened to 
the door, and made a sign to the waiter to come 
in. “ Mr. Dalton desires you to witness his sig- 
nature,” said he to the man. 

“ I acknowledge this as mine/' said Frank, 
already half-exhausted by the unaccustomed 
exertion. 


“Your name, there, as witnessing it,” whis- 
pered D’Esmonde ; and the waiter added his 
signature. 

“Have you hope of success, abbe?” said 
Frank, faintly. 

“ Hope never fails me,” replied D’Esmonde, 
in a voice of bold and assured tone. “ It is the 
only capital that humble men, like myself, pos- 
sess ; but we can draw upon it without limit. 
The fate of riches is often ruin, but there is no 
bankruptcy in hope. Time presses now,” said 
he, as if suddenly remembering himself; “ I must 
see to this at once. When may I come again ?” 

“Whenever you like. I have much to say 
to you. I can not tell you, now, how strangely 
you are mixed up in my fancy — it is but fancy, 
after all — with several scenes of terrible inter- 
est.” 

“ What ! how do you mean ?” said D’Es- 
mode, turning hastily about. 

“ I scarcely know where to begin, or how to 
separate truth from its counterfeit. Your image 
is before me, at times and in places where you 
could not have been. Ay, even in the very 
crash and tumult of battle, as I remember once 
at Yarenna, beside the Lake of Como. I could 
have sworn to have seen you cheering on the 
peasants to the attack.” 

“ What strange tricks imagination will play 
upon us !” broke in D’Esmonde ; but his voice 
faltered, and his pale cheek grew paler as he 
said the words. 

“ Then, again, in the Balbi Palace at Milan, 
where I was brought as a prisoner, I saw you 
leave the council-chamber arm-in-arm with an 
Austrian archduke. When I say 1 saw you, I 
mean as I now see you here — more palpable to 
my eyes, than when you sat beside my sick-bed 
at Verona.” 

“ Dreams — dreams,” said D’Esmonde. “ Such 
illusions bespeak a mind broken by sickness. 
Forget them, Dalton, if you would train your 
thoughts to higher uses.” And, so saying, in a 
tone of pride, the abbe bowed, and passed out. 

As D’Esmonde passed out into the street, 
Cahill joined him. 

“ Well,” cried the latter, “ is it done ?” 

“Yes, Michel,” was the answer; “signed, 
and sealed, and witnessed in all form. By this 
document I am recognized as a member of his 
family, inheriting that which I shall never claim. 
No,” cried he, with exaltation of voice and man- 
ner, “I want none of their possessions ; I ask but 
to be accounted of their race and name ; and 
yet the time may come when these conditions 
shall be reversed, and they who would scarcely 
own me, to-day, may plot and scheme to trace 
our relationship. Now for Rome. To-night — 
this very night — I set out. With this evidence 
of my station and fortune there can be no longer 
any obstacle. The struggle is past — now to 
enjoy the victory.” 

“You will see him before you go, D’Esmonde? 
A few minutes is all he asks.” 

“Why should I? What bond is there be- 
tween us now? The tie is is loosened forever; 


367 


THE DALTONS: OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


besides, he deceived us, Michel — deceived us in 
every thing.” 

“Be it so,” said the other 5 “but remember, 
that it is the last prayer of one under sentence 
of death — the last wish of one who will soon 
have passed away hence.” 

“ Why should I go to hear the agonizing en- 
treaties for a mercy that can not be granted — 
the harrowing remorse of a guilty nature ?” 

“ Do not refuse him, D’Esmonde. He clings 
to this object with a fixed purpose, that turns 
his mind from every thought that should become 
the hour. In vain I speak to him of the short 
interval between him and the grave. He nei- 
ther hears nor heeds me. His only question is, 

4 Is he coming — will he come to me?’ ” 

“To lose minutes, when everyone of them is 
priceless — to waste emotions, when my heart is 
already racked and tortured — why should I do 
this?” cried D’Esmonde, peevishly. 

“ Do not refuse me , D’Esmonde,” said Cahill, 
passionately. “ I despair of recalling the mis- 
erable man to the thought of his eternal peril 
’till this w r ish be satisfied.” 

“Be it so, then,” said the abbe, proudly; 
and he walked along beside his friend in silence. 

They traversed the streets without a word 
spoken. Already D’Esmonde had assumed an 
air of reserve, which seemed to mark the dis- 
tance between himself and his companion ; the 
thoughtful gravity of his look savored no less of 
pride than reflection. In suchwise did Cahill 
read his manner, and by a cautious deference, 
appear to accept the new conditions of their 
intimacy. 

“ The prisoner has not uttered a word since 
you were here, sir,” said the jailer, as they en- 
tered the gate. He shows the greatest anxiety 
whenever the door opens ; but, as if disappointed 
on not seeing whom he expected, relapses at 
once into his silent reserve.” 

“ You see that he still expects you,” whis- 
pered Cahill to the abbe ; and the other assented 
with a faint nod of the head. 

“No, sir; this way,” said the jailer; “he is 
now in the condemned cell.” And, so saying, 
he led the way along the corridor. 

By the faint light of a small lamp, fixed hig 1 ' 
up in the wall, they could just detect the figure 
of a man, as he sat crouched on the low settle- 
bed, his head resting on his arms as they were 
crossed over his knees. He never moved as the 
grating-sound of the heavy door jarred on the 
stillness, but sat still and motionless. 

“The Abbe D’Esmonde has come to see 
you, Eustace,” said the jailer, tapping him on 
the shoulder. “ Wake up, man, and speak to 
him.” 

The prisoner lifted his head and made an ef- 
fort to say something, but though his lips moved, 
there came no sounds from them. At last, with 
an effort that was almost convulsive, he pointed 
to the door, and said, “ Alone — alone !” 

“He wants to speak with you alone, sir,” 
whispered the jailer, “and so we will retire.” 

D’Esmonde could not see them leave the cell 


without a sense of fear — less the dread of any 
personal injury than the strange terror so insep- 
arable to any close communion with one con- 
victed of a dreadful crime — and he actually 
shuddered as the massive door was banged to ! 

“ You are cold, sir !” said the prisoner, in a 
hollow, sepulchral voice. 

“No, it was not cold !” replied D’Esmonde. 

“ I can guess what it was, then !” said the 
other, with an energy to w r hich passion seemed 
to contribute. “ But I’ll not keep you long 
here. Sit down, sir. You must sit beside me, 
for there is no other seat than the settle-bed. 
But there is nobody here to see the great Abbe 
D’Esmonde side by side with a murderer.” 

“ Wretched man,” said D’Esmonde, passion- 
ately, “ by what fatality did you rush upon your 
fate? Why did you ever return to this coun- 
try ?” ' 

“ It is to tell you that — ay, that very thing — 
I asked you to come here to-night,” said the 
prisoner, with a firm full voice. “ I came here 
for you — just so — for you yourself. There, 
there,” continued he, haughtily, “ don’t look as 
if I wanted to trick you. Is it here, is it now, 
that a lie would sarve me ? Listen to me, and 
don’t stop me, for I want to turn my thoughts 
to something else, when this is off my heart. 
Listen to me. Very soon after you saved me 
at Venice, I knew all about you ; who you were, 
and what you were planning — ay, deep as you 
thought yourself, I read every scheme in you, 
and opened every letter you wrote or received. 
You don’t believe me. Shall I give you a proof? 
Did you accept eight bills for money Morlach 
the Jew sent you, from Florence, in March last? 
Did Cardinal Antinori write to say that the Bull 
that named you cardinal must have your birth 
set forth as noble ? Did the Austrian field-mar- 
shal send you the cross of St. Joseph, and did 
you not return it, as, to wear it would unmask 
you to the Italians?” 

“ What if all this were true ?” said D’Es- 
monde, proudly. “Is it to one like you I am 
to render account for my actions ? What is it 
to you if — ” 

“ What is it to me ?” cried the other, fiercely 
— “ what is it to me ? Isn’t it every thing ! 
Isn’t it what brought me here, and what in three 
days more will bring me to the gallows ! I tell 
you again, I saw what you were bent on, and I 
knew you’d succeed — ay, that I did. If it was 
jtpod blood you wanted to be a cardinal, I was 
tme only one could help you.” 

“ You knew the secret of my birth, then ?” 
cried D’Esmonde, in deep earnestness. “You 
could prove my descent from the Godfreys ?” 

“No! but I could destroy the only evidence 
against it,” said the other, in a deep, guttural 
voice. “ I could tear out of the parish registry 
the only leaf that could betray you ; and it was 
for that I came back here ; and it was for that 
I’m now here. And I did do it. I broke into 
the vestry of the chapel at midnight, and I tore 
out the page, and I have it here, in my hand, 
this minute. There was a copy of this same 


368 


THE DALTONS ; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


paper at >.he college at Louvain, but I stole that, 
too ; for I went as porter there, just to get an 
opportunity to take it — that one I destroyed.” 

“ But whence this intei'est in my fortunes ?” 
said D’Esmonde, half proudly, for he was still 
slow to believe all that he heard. 

“ The paper will tell you that,” said the other, 
slowly unfolding it, and flattening it out on his 
knee. “ This is the certificate of your baptism ! 
Wait — stop a minute,” cried he, catching D’Es- 
monde’s arm, as, in his impatience, he tried to 
seize the paper. “ This piece of paper is the 
proof of who you are, and, moreover, the only 
proof that will soon exist to show it.” 

‘‘Give it to me — let me see it!” cried D’Es- 
monde, eagerly. “ Why have you withheld till 
this time what might have spared me anxious 
days and weary nights ; and by what right have 
you mixed yourself up with my fortunes?” 

“ By what right is it — by what right?” cried 
the other, in a voice which passion rendered 
harsh and discordant. “ Is that what you want 
to know?” And, as he spoke, he bent down 
and fixed his eyes on the abbe with a stern stare. 
“You want to know what right I have,” said 
he, and his face became almost convulsed with 
passion. “ There's my right — read that!” cried 
he, holding out the paper before D’Esmonde’s 
eyes. “ There’s your birth proved and certified : 
‘ Mathew, son of Samuel and Mary Eustace of 
Ballykinnon, baptized by me this 10th day of 
April, 18 — . Joseph Barry, P.P.’ There’s the 
copy of your admission into the convent, and 
here’s the superior’s receipt for the first quar- 
ter’s payment as a probationer. Do you know 
who you are now ? or do you still ask me what 
right I have to meddle in your affairs?” 

“ And you — and you — you — ” cried D’Es- 
monde, gasping. 

“ I am your father. Ay, you can hear the 
words here, and needn’t start at the sound of 
them. We’re in the condemned cell of a jail, 
and nobody near us. You are my son. Mr. 
Godfrey paid for you as a student till — till — 
But it’s all over now. I never meant you to 
know the truth ; but a lie wouldn’t serve you 
any longer. Oh, Mathew, Mathew!” cried he; 


and of a sudden his voice changed, and softened 
to accents of almost choking sorrow — “ haven’t 
you one word for me ? — one word of affection 
lor him that you brought to this, and who for- 
gives you for it? — one word, even, to call me 
your own father?” He fell at the other s feet, 
and clasped his arms around his knees as he 
spoke, but the appeal w r as unheard. 

Pale as a corpse, with his head slightly thrown 
forward, and his eyes wildly staring before him, 
D’Esmonde sat perfectly motionless. At last 
the muscles of his mouth fashioned themselves 
into a ghastly smile, a look of mockery so dread- 
ful to gaze upon, that the prisoner, terror-stricken 
at the sight, rushed to the door, and beat loudly 
against it, as he screamed for help. It was opened 
on the instant, and the jailer, followed by two 
others, entered. 

“ He’s ill ; his reverence is taken bad,” said 
the old man, while he trembled from head to 
foot with agitation. 

“What’s this paper? What is he clutching 
in his hands?” cried the jailer. 

D’Esmonde started at the words. For the 
first time a gleam of intelligence shot over his 
features, and as suddenly he bent a look of 
withering hate on the speaker; and then, with 
a passionate vehemence that told of a frantic 
brain, he tore the paper into fragments, and, 
with a wild yell, as if of triumph, he fell sense- 
less on the ground. When they lifted him up. 
his features were calm, but passionless, his eve 
was vacant, and his lips slightly parted. An 
expression of weariness and exhaustion, rather 
than of actual pain, pervaded the face. He 
never spoke again. The lamp of intellect, was 
extinguished forever, and not even a flicker nor 
a spark remained to cheer the darkness within 
him. Hopeless and helpless idiocy was ever 
after the lot of one whose mind, once stored 
with the most lofty ambitions, never scrupled, 
at. any cost, to attain its object. And he whose 
proud aspirings soared to the very grandest of 
earthly prizes, who gave his counsel among 
princes, now lives on, bereft of mind and intel- 
ligence, without consciousness of the past, or a 
hope for the future. 


CHAPTER LXXX. 


“ THE END.” 


With the sad episode which closes our last 
chapter, we would fain let fall the curtain on 
this history. Very few words will now suffice 
to complete the narrative of those with whom 
we have so long sojourned. The discovery 
which revealed the murder of Mr. Godfrey, 
restored Frank Dalton to the home and fortune 
of his family ; and although the trying scenes 
through which he had passed made deep and 
dangerous inroads on his health, youth and hope, 
and the watchful care of Kate, restored him ; 
and, after the lapse of some weeks, he was ena- 
bled to bo about once more, recalling to the 
recollection of many the handsome figure and 
manly bearing of his father. 

For many a year before, Corrig O’Neal had 
not seen such a party beneath its roof, nor had 
those gloomy old walls echoed to such sounds 
as now were heard within them. In addition 
to Lady Hester, George Onslow, now a colonel, 
was the guest of the Daltons. Scarcely arrived 
in England, he quitted London at the mordent 
when the tidings of his gallant achievements 
had made him the hero of the day, and hurried 
to see her , who, through every change of his 
fortunes, had been the dearest object of his heart. 

What tender reproaches — what heart-warm 
confessions — did those old woods hear, as, side 
by side, the lovers walked along, revealing the 
secret sorrows of the past, and recalling each 
incident which once had cherished hope or sha- 
dowed with despair. But it is not in such com- 
pany we would play the “ eaves-dropper,” nor 
watch for the changeful blushes of that soft 
cheek where tears of joy and grief are mingled. 
Neither would we care to accompany Grounsell, 
as with deeds and bonds, codicils and convey- 
ances, he actually hunted poor Frank from place 
to place, urgently impressing on him the neces- 
sity for those “ business habits,” the sad neglect 
of which had been the ruin of all the Daltons. 
As little inducement is there to follow Lady Hes- 
ter, whose restless activity was interfering with 
every one and every thing, taking the most live- 
ly interest in the property the very moment it 
ceased to be her own, and devoted to all the 
charities which no longer could lay claim to 
being duties. 

Pleasanter, perhaps, would it be to follow the 
old count, as he sauntered alone for hours, try- 
ing to trace out in the long-forgotten scenes the 
stones of his boyhood. What pleasant reveries 
they were ! — what glorious compensations for 


all the tumultuous passages of an eventful life ! 
And so he felt them ! And so he recognized 
wdth grateful heart the happy destiny which had 
befallen him, to close his days where he had 
begun them — in the midst of his own — loving 
and beloved. 

And yet with such scenes and emotions we 
must not dally. Story-tellers, like Mother Ca- 
rey’s chickens, have no sympathies with sunny 
skies and soft airs — their province is amidst the 
hurricane and the storm. In truth, too, it is the 
very essence of tranquil enjoyment, that it must 
be left to the imagination of each to conceive. 

But one care weighed on all, and that was 
the absence of poor Nelly. Why was she not 
among them, to see their happiness, and height- 
en its enjoyment by all the benevolence of her 
kindly nature ? It was true they were relieved 
of all anxiety regarding her by a letter, which, 
had followed them from Vienna, and w r hich told 
how she had arrived in that city a few days 
after they had left it. 

“I stood,” she said, “looking at the great 
palace, where they told me Count Stephen lived, 
and could not bring myself to think it was not 
a dream — that such as I, should have business 
there ! 

“ I sat down on the steps of a church in front 
of it, and gazed for hours long at the great door, 
through which you must have passed so often, 
and the windows which doubtless you stood at 
— perhaps thinking of poor Nelly ! At last 
came Hanserl to say that he had obtained leave 
to see the palace, and oh, how my heart beat 
at the words — for there was Pride as well as 
Humiliation in the thought — and so we went in, 
and, crossing the great court, ascended the wide 
staircase. How beautiful it all was, those mar- 
ble statues — the rich frescoes of the ceilings 

the gorgeous lamps, all emblazoned with ar- 
morial emblems ; and yet I thought less of these, 
than the polished steps which your feet had 
trodden, and which I could have kissed for your 
sake. 

“ I had not imagined so much magnificence. 
You will smile, perhaps, at my simplicity, but 
so did not that kind old soldier with the wooden- 
leg, who took such pains to show us every thing. 
He was evidently pleased to witness our ad- 
miring wonder, and actually laughed at Han- 
serl’s enthusiasm for all those bright scimitars 
and shields of Turkish make, the horse-tailed 
banners, and other emblems of Austrian victory j 


370 


THE DALTONS; OR, THREE ROADS IN LIFE. 


while I stole away silently into a little chamber 
all hung with blue damask, over the mantle- 
piece of which was a portrait of our own dear 
Frank. How I felt that the room was yours, 
Kate — how my heart told me each object you 
had touched — and how they all became to my 
delighted senses, like precious relics, revealing 
stores of affection laid up in your bosom, and 
showing a wealth of love I was not conscious 
of till then. Oh, no, dearest sister, I never 
knew, till then, how things without life them- 
selves can be the links between beating hearts ! 
I looked every where for a portrait of yourself, 
and it was only by asking the old corporal that 
I succeeded in finding it. ‘The Grafinn’s pic- 
ture is in the field-marshal’s own room,’ said 
he, with pride, and led the way toward it. Oh, 
Kate, how beautiful — nay, it is Nelly, your own 
stern Nelly, who never flattered you herself, nor 
could bear others to do so — it is Nelly, the same 
Nelly, unchanged, save in being less trustful, 
less impulsive, less forgiving than you knew 
her, and she tells you that at sight of such love- 
liness she stood wonderstruck and fascinated. 
Had you been really then before me, such as the 
picture represented, 1 had not dared to approach 
you ; there was that of nobility and grandeur 
that had appalled my poor peasant heart, unused 
to the glitter of diamonds, and the queenly air 
of high-born beauty ; but, as I gazed on the 
likeness, long and steadily, this expression faded 
away, and, as though the lineaments were chang- 
ing, I thought the eyes grew softer ; they seem- 
ed to moisten, the lips trembled, the bosom 
heaved and fell, and it was you — you ! as I had 
pressed you to my heart a thousand times — my 
own ! my own ! 

“ I know not what foolish words I may have 
uttered, nor to what excess my rapture carried 
me, but I was weeping bitterly as they led me 
away — ay, bitterly, Kate ; for such ecstasy as 
I felt, finds its true vent in sorrow ! But now, 
I am happy once more — happy that I have seen 
you and dear Frank — happy, that each of us in 
life has trodden the path that best became him ; 
and so I came away, with many a lingering 
look, and many a backward glance at what I 
was never to see again. 

“ Here, in my mountain home, once more I 
can sit alone, and think of you for days long. 


You wander through all my thoughts, the char- 
acters of endless stories, in every imaginable 
vicissitude, and with every change of fortune; 
but throughout all, Kate — good and beautiful — 
truthful, too, as you ever were. Then my tears 
have blotted out what I tried to say, nor dare I 
trust myself with more. My school children are 
already coming through the vineyard ; I hear 
their song — it was your own long ago : 

Da sind die TSge lang genug, 

Da sind die Nftchte milde. 

“Good-by, good-by, my sister — my dear sister. 

“N. D. 

“ Meran.” 

“Oh! let us hasten thither at once,” cried 
Kate, in rapture. “ Oh ! dear uncle, let us 
away to Meran.” 

“Not till after Tuesday, Kate,” whispered 
George, passionately ; and the words covered 
her cheeks with blushes as she heard them. 

The reader knows now all that we care to 
tell him. Time was when story tellers wound 
up with the kind wish that, “ if they were not 
happy, that you and 1 may be.” Nor am I 
quite certain that we are wiser in our vocation 
than when these words were in vogue. 

We are not vain enough to suppose that we 
have inspired an interest for any of those char- 
acters who have supported the minor parts of 
our Drama. Should such good fortune have 
happily attended us, let us say, once for all, 
that Messrs. Haggerstone, Jekyl, and Purvis 
yet survive ; that the Ricketts family are in 
excellent health, autograph-gathering and duke- 
courting, poetizing and painting, and pilfering 
with all the ardor of youth, untouched by years, 
and unrestrained by conscience. Lady Hester, 
too, is again living abroad, and after trying three 
new changes of religion, is in treaty with a 
Heidelberg professor for a “spec and span” new 
Faith, which will transcend every thing hitherto 
known, and make even Mormonism ashamed of 
itself. 

As for Prince Midchikofl', he and my Ladv 
Norwood are the delight of a foreign city, which 
shall be nameless, and their receptions nightly 
crowded by all the fashionable celebrities and 
distinguished visitors of that favored region. 


ENVOY. 


While owning to the fictitious features of this 
story, and the unreality of all its incidents and 
actors, I can not part with my reader without a 
word as to those truths, stranger than any fiction, 
to which occasional reference has been made in 
this volume ; and here, once for all, I beg to 
declare, that it is not lightly, nor without abun- 
dant proof, I have dared speak of the Lombard 
insurrection as an organized and pre-arranged 
plan of Austria, to crush the cause of Italian 
liberty, and extinguish, at least for a while, the 
hopes of constitutional freedom in the Peninsula. 

I am well aware that the interests of truth 
are seldom well served, when its claims are 
mixed up and confounded with the details of 
fiction. I feel strongly, too, the insuitability of 
the time and place to discuss questions of such 
grave and portentous importance ; and lastly, I 
know how difficult it must be to the reader so 
to guide his credulity, that while according his 
share of sympathy to the mere fiction, he should 
lend his trustful confidence to assertions appa- 
rently thrown out at random, and unsupported 
by that weight of argument and evidence which 
ought to sustain them. Of course it could not 
be expected that in the narrow limits of these 
few remarks I could be able to adduce the proofs 
on which my opinion is founded. I would only 
repeat, that I have not come to that opinion 
rashly nor hastily — neither was it the impression 
which for a very long time held possession of 
my mind. Living for the last five years in the 
scenes alluded to, with reasonable opportunities 
for forming a judgment, arising out of intima- 
cies with men of all shades of opinion — and 
stronger still, the absolute knowledge of certain 
facts distinctly corroborating these views — I 
own to the most implicit belief in what I have 
here asserted. 


It is scarcely necessary that I should say that 
the Abbe D’Esmonde is not taken from any 
living model. I merely intended to embody in 
the character the views and opinions which I 
know to be entertained on certain political ques- 
tions by some men of his cloth at Rome; and 
that the policy of the Pontifical Court adheres to 
the fortunes of Despotic Government, is a fact 
little likely to be denied in the face of the events 
now happening before our eyes. 

Of the few remarks I have thrown out on the 
question of Irish insurrection, I see nothing to 
change nor retract. Without any sympathy 
with those who conceived that project., I can 
recognize amid them men of generous impulses, 
high darings, and transcendent abilities, and yet, 
with all these qualities, destined to be the dupes 
of those, who, in the secret bond of their Jesuis- 
try, possess a degree of power that genius never 
imagined, much less ever compassed. 

For all the errors and short-comings of this 
tale I offer no apology, simply because such 
excuses are good for nothing. They are, be- 
sides, either petty attempts at justification, or 
small pleas for the merciful judgment of the 
reader — equally deplorable in the one case, as 
in the other. 

One hope has sustained me in tne conduct of 
this story, nor has it deserted me yet. It is 
this : — In every page I have written — in every 
line — I have ever had before me an ardent de- 
sire to maintain the good favor of those who 
have so long befriended me, and to serve that 
cause of Truth and Morals which can be bene- 
fited by the efforts of one even weak and humble 
as myself. 

CHARLES LEVER. 


THE END 


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